


Come Down, See Me Again

by roggietaylor



Category: Bohemian Rhapsody (Movie 2018), Queen (Band)
Genre: Chance Meetings, Early 70s, Early Queen (Band), Friends With Benefits, Loss of Virginity, M/M, Smile (Band) Era
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-30
Updated: 2020-08-03
Packaged: 2021-03-03 05:00:57
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 40,723
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24459364
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/roggietaylor/pseuds/roggietaylor
Summary: The only person Roger is out to is himself and the strangers he meets, strangers he never sees twice, which gets complicated when one of those strangers wanders back into his life.
Relationships: John Deacon/Roger Taylor
Comments: 77
Kudos: 133





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Hello all! This fic is a little shorter than most and a lot less angsty than pretty much everything I've written. It's a little more fun so I hope you all have fun with it even if it goes by a little quicker. Also idk if anyone noticed but my last two fics were posted in tandem which I really enjoyed the format of so I'll be posting another fic along with this one but I'm debating over two different ones (transjohn/roger and frian) lmk what everyone thinks or if anyone cares haha! And if you enjoy this chapter please comment !! <33

Roger tugged on his tightest trousers, his flashiest top, and made his hair look the perfect mess it always was. Fluffed and tousled _just so_. His and Freddie’s bathroom mirror had scratches, a bit of rust in one corner, but it was enough for Roger to be sure his hair looked alright.

“Where’re you off too?” said Freddie, poking his head in the bathroom.

“Meeting that girl,” said Roger with one last look in the mirror. He switched the lights off.

“Another one?” said Freddie with a laugh. “You’ll have a whole litter of bastards like this, Rog.”

“I’ll name them all after you,” said Roger with a smirk.

“Well give her a hello from me,” said Freddie.

Normally they went out together and struck out together. But occasionally Freddie had dates of his own and vice versa. At least, Roger always called them dates.

He said a quick goodnight to Freddie and nearly stumbled over his own feet getting down to the rickety van in their parking space. The van was Roger’s, but it became the band’s. His, Brian’s, and Freddie’s and the myriad of bassists that came through and left just as quick. Just big enough to fit everyone’s instruments, just small enough to fit in the tiny parking spot they were allotted from their building.

He backed out carefully and had the van in third before he was out of the driveway. The path he took was ingrained in his mind, so well-worn he hardly had to think about what he was doing. He couldn’t remember the last time he told Freddie he was going to meet some woman and hadn’t been lying. Couldn’t remember the last time he said that as fact instead of a coverup for the pub he was headed for. A pub that had begun to know him well, something he was never sure if he enjoyed. A pub far away from the students he might know, a pub far away from old friends he might come across, a pub full of men like him.

One lager, that’s all he ever had. His girlish looks repulsed some of the men inside, some who thought being with a man so feminine was somehow more of an embarrassment than a masculine man. The men that did take a shine to his big blue eyes and soft jaw were more likely to try and manhandle him, dominate him in a way Roger grew tired of within the first few weeks of coming back weekend after weekend.

So he ordered one drink and kept his wits about him, and kept his eyes low. Part of him was always worried someone he knew might pop through the door by mistake, might see Roger and spread the word around. He’d had that word spread around in secondary school. Back then Roger thought it was all lies and got in fights day after day defending what he believed to be the truth. But a few months away from Truro, a few drunken nights with strangers, and he proved them all right.

“You here alone?”

Roger looked up at the man lingering by his table. Man was a strong word. His voice was deep but he spoke soft, and his face looked not a day over 19. Dark hair that was just nearly to his shoulders, and a bright blush across his cheeks and nose. Eyes as wide as saucers. It was refreshing in a way, to see someone there that was nearer his age, this far out from the universities there weren’t many under 25.

“I am,” said Roger, grinning up at him.

“Can I sit?”

“Sure,” Roger nudged the chair out from under the table with his foot. Roger couldn’t help notice the way his hand shook as the stranger rested his drink on the wood of the table and sat down. And when Roger grinned at him his blushing only deepened. “How’s your night been?”

“Just alright,” said the stranger.

“Are you drunk?” said Roger.

“What—no?” He brought a hand to his face self consciously. “Do I sound drunk?”

“No,” laughed Roger, “but you’re bright red.”

“Oh,” he laughed too, “I figured I was.”

“Why’s that?” Roger rested his chin in his hand.

“Er…This haircut,” said the stranger. “I’m growing it out, but it looks a proper mess. I look like a french orphan.”

“No, no it’s not so bad,” said Roger with a barely stifled laugh. He reached out and twirled a lock of his wavy, frizzy hair around his finger. “I think it looks quite nice.”

“Thanks I…think your hair’s nice too. It’s…shiny.”

Roger laughed, felt his heart pick up, and offered a cigarette to the man. Offered to smoke it outside with him. He seemed flustered just by that, just by the offer of a cigarette in private. Roger could just barely remember when he’d been that way in the pub. Deep down he’d never stopped but outwardly he’d finally go the hang of looking blasé and confident in what he was doing, who he was doing it with.

Once the fresh air mixed finely with the smoke, the conversation between them was smooth, natural, like they’d been doing it for years. The stranger started them off talking about his school work, electrical engineering or something to that end. Roger cut him off once he started in on maths. He’d never had an issue with biology, with the latin and the greek, but the math was never easy, never something he was glad he learned.

There was an unspoken tension in sharing so much, like the one might be faking interest to get solid evidence against the other. He was never so friendly, never spoken to for so long. It felt more like the date he lied about being on than any other encounter he’d ever had coming out of the pub.

“A bassist eh?” said Roger.

“Guitar as well, bit of piano, but focused in on the bass right now, got an audition and everything,” said the stranger.

“An audition? A real proper musician are you?”

“Well—a student band, nothing big,” he grinned a little shier.

“Let me see your hands ‘en,” said Roger, holding his own out. The man smiled shyly, the blush returning to his cheeks, and rested his hand in Roger’s. Roger felt ran his fingertips over the stranger’s. “So calloused.”

“Sorry,” whispered the man.

“I like it,” said Roger. He looked over at the man, the way the glowing pub light caught his hair, the way the blush on his cheeks was still so prominent. “Can I kiss you?” He’d never asked before. He felt silly doing it too but something about this stranger made it feel warranted. Like he ought to treat him with more care.

“Oh—you want to?”

Roger laughed. “Of course I want to.”

“Oh,” he quieted and moved, incrementally closer, an inch or two. Roger did the same. He flicked the meager remains of his cigarette onto the concrete and brought a hand up to rest on the man’s cheek. “I’m not very good.”

“What d’you mean?” said Roger, laughing through his words.

“I’m not good at it.”

“I’m sure you’ll do fine,” whispered Roger. He leaned in slow and breathed deep when their lips met. He wasn’t very good, all tongue no subtlety. But he was so quiet, so calm, so open about it that Roger didn’t mind in the least. He carded his hand through his dark wavy hair and hummed when he felt his palm press against his chest. “You up for more?”

“Huh?”

Roger tried not to laugh at how dazed he was. “For more,” he repeated. He nodded over at his van in the carpark. “A little privacy at least.”

“Okay,” he said with a shake, then more sure he added, “yes, yes, okay.”

“Okay.”

Roger led the way. Tugging his hand and letting go once they were out of the shadow of the pub and the streetlamps, the moon could see them. He spun his keys, looking for the right one, and swung the doors open. Roger looked back, smiled, and jumped inside, holding a hand out for him to do the same.

“It’s nice.”

“It’s okay,” said Roger. He’d put in new carpet, usually brought pillows with him, and a few months back he added beads between the front seats and the back, he found it settled his paranoia a bit if he couldn’t park with the windshield facing nothing but a brick wall. There were little scuffs up the walls from his drums, from Brian rolling around in the back when he had to ride with, but overall it was warm, inviting enough for it’s purpose.

Roger shifted from the opposite wall to sit beside him. And put a hand on his thigh.

“What’s your name?” said the man.

“It’s, er, it’s Taylor,” said Roger.

“No it isn’t,” laughed the man.

“But you can call me that, for tonight,” said Roger. He put his hand more firmly on his knee, moved it slowly between his thighs. “And what can I call you?”

“Why can’t I know your name?”

“I don’t know,” Roger shrugged. “Never tell anyone my real name, it’s cleaner like that.”

“Well, let me make one up for you then.” Roger watched him deliberate for a moment or two, trying not to smile at how much thought he gave it. “Okay—Deacon.”

“Deacon?” Roger laughed. “That’s so specific.”

“Is it?” laughed Deacon.

“Key to fake names is keeping them common. Something like John or Jack always works,” said Roger.

“Well,” Deacon nervously shifted, “I don’t do this…ever really.”

“Why’re you doing it tonight?” said Roger.

“I…have to,” he said with a quiet laugh. “I feel like I need it.”

“I know what you mean,” whispered Roger. His hand moved up Deacon’s thigh, lingering low on his hip before trailing up his chest. “I know exactly what you mean.”

He kissed him, a little more force this time, and eased him down onto his back. Where normally he’d never take so much time and care with anyone, tonight felt like it was worth it. Like he’d actually be able to enjoy it. All of it. The subtle grinding against each other over their clothes, the soft but desperate kisses, the random and awkward placement of Deacon’s hands.

“You’re so hard already,” teased Roger with a roll of his hips against Deacon’s.

“Sorry,” whispered Deacon.

“No apologies,” said Roger. He moved his hand between them, careful to keep his touches light as he palmed him through his trousers.

“I really never do this,” said Deacon one more time.

“First time for everything,” said Roger with a chuckle. “How d’you normally like it?’

“I don’t know,” said Deacon, looking up at him with wide eyes.

“What don’t you know?” said Roger, focusing hard on how soft his features looked in the moonlight, how prominent his blushing still was in the dark.

“I mean it,” breathed Deacon. “I never do this.”

“What d’you mean? Never do—as in sex? You don’t have…?” his words trailed off the more bewildered he became.

“I do in theory, but I haven’t _yet_ ,” said Deacon.

“Oh.” Roger remembered losing his virginity when he was about seventeen. He remembered thinking back then how behind he felt. “How old are you?”

“You don’t have to make fun of me,” snapped Deacon, any hint of a smile leaving his face.

“I’m not,” said Roger, reassuring him with a hand through his hair. “I’m just surprised that’s all.”

“What’s so surprising?”

“I don’t know your name,” said Roger with a nervous laugh. “This just, isn’t how most people lose it.”

“I don’t care,” said Deacon, rolling his hips up sloppily, hopping to rut against Roger just a bit.

“You might,” said Roger, a bit more serious. “You know you don’t forget your first. Do you really want to waste it on me?”

Deacon nodded. “I’d be lucky to.” He jerked his hips again, pressed his hardening cock against Roger’s hip and huffed quietly as he did. Such a beautiful, desperate noise that Roger couldn’t resist.

“If you’re sure,” said Roger against his lips.

Roger was careful with him. Touched him like he’d shatter. Undressed him with slow hands and careful tugs against the fabric. Deacon whispered over and over that he could be rougher, that he could move it all along quicker, but the shake in his voice told Roger to stay slow, to let every movement and touch really sink in.

Roger didn’t mind taking it or giving it, either way it felt good that’s all he cared about really. But John didn’t look ready to take the reins, and mumbled a plea for Roger to get deep inside, deeper than his fingers could go. Roger wouldn’t deny him that. On his belly, Deacon squirmed while Roger worked him open. He sighed deep and choked when Roger switched his fingers for his cock. Slow at first, an inch or two at most, then a little more, and a little more, and a little more.

He kept a hand on the small of Deacon’s back, rubbing soft circles into the tight muscle there. “It won’t hurt long.”

“Fuck.” Deacon grabbed a fistful of some mix of the blanket and his own shirt next to him. Tightening and loosening his grip at random intervals.

“Soon it’ll be so good,” Roger ran his blunt nails up his spine, “so good, Deaky.”

Deacon whimpered and reached a hand back aimlessly for him. Roger took it and moved his hips just enough for Deacon to feel it, to want more.

Roger got lost in him. In the way he begged and moaned, the way he rolled onto his back and dragged Roger down into a sloppy kiss, the way he bucked his hips up and asked for it deeper, asked for more, begged for more. The way Deacon’s eyes rolled back, the way his body arched when he came, the tight heat of his body, it all sent Roger over the edge, the edge he’d been teetering on for minutes on end trying his hardest to let Deacon come first, just barely succeeding.

He grinned at the way Deacon shivered and blushed when Roger licked the mess off his softy belly, up to his bony ribs. He settled there, on top of him, clinging to him and his warmth, and kissed him, deep enough to let him taste himself but gentle enough that they both could gulp down air as they caught their breath.

“Still glad this was it?” said Roger.

“Uh-huh,” whined Deacon with a tired nod.

“Best you ever had?” said Roger with a laugh. Deacon laughed too, more breathy, more tired. Roger kissed where he could, his cheeks, his nose his shoulder, and rolled off him. He laid at his side and tugged his trousers back on, promising there was no rush for Deacon to do the same. But he did the same anyway. His hands were weak as they tried to work his trousers on. After a fair amount of effort he gave up. “Save your strength,” teased Roger.

“Sorry.”

“No, don’t be,” Roger reached over and ran a hand through his hair. “Really stroking my ego acting so worn out.”

“I’m not acting,” said Deacon, breathing deep.

“I can drive you home,” said Roger. He ran his thumb up the bridge of Deacon’s nose, across his forehead. Deacon shut his eyes and hummed.

“Would you really?”

“I would really,” said Roger with a grin.

“If you wouldn’t mind I’d love that,” said Deacon. “I walked here, it was much further than I expected.”

“I think you’ve earned a lift,” said Roger with a laugh.

Deacon worked his clothes back on piece by piece and meandered up to the passenger’s seat once Roger had climbed in the driver’s seat. He let Deacon choose the radio, but the music never got very loud. He looked exhausted. Roger was used to feeling a similar sense of intense satisfaction and happiness, along with that stomach churning fear that somehow everyone knew. Every family member, every friend, every acquaintance had seen the whole thing.

Deacon gave him quiet directions back to his flat and Roger rolled to a stop outside his building and threw the van into park.

“Got everything?” said Roger. “Keys, wallet?”

“Got it,” mumbled Deacon. He reached over, grabbed the door handle, might’ve even jumped out without a word of goodbye had Roger not tugged his sleeve. Not caught his attention and pulled him in for one last lingering kiss.

“I had fun,” whispered Roger against his cheek.

“Me too,” said Deacon, his voice high and tight. “Hey er…will you be there again?”

“Be where?” said Roger, pulling away just a bit.

“The pub? Will you be there other nights?”

“Sure,” Roger grinned, “sure I’ll be there.”

“So…maybe I’ll see you again?”

“Maybe you will,” Roger pressed one more frenzied kiss to his lips before letting him swing the door open and jump out. “Oh—and good luck on your audition!”

“Thanks, I’ll need it!” called Deacon from the front gate of his building.

Roger watched him climb his stairs as long as he could. He’d been going to that pub for months, almost a full year now. Been finding random men and getting off with them in his van, and was always quick to throw them out. Quick to say his goodnights, quick to dodge kisses and drive home with his music blaring, drowning out any deep thinking he might be tempted to do. He’d never driven anyone home, never wanted to, never wished he knew someone’s real name. Never felt so empty thinking of how unlikely the chance of them meeting again was.

So he turned his radio up and blared music with his window down on the drive home.

~~~

Brian mentioned something about ‘having to be on time’. And while Roger wanted to be unfeeling and bored of the fucking relentless bassist auditions, he did need to be there and be an active participant or he’d wind up with another bassist who thought he controlled the tempo. But months now of seeing forgetful faces and even more forgetful playing he was growing tired of trying to find someone new and leaning more towards forcing Freddie to learn bass.

So he took his time packing up after his lecture, said hello to friends on the way out, and didn’t pick up his pace despite already running a good fifteen minutes late. He took the long way to the spare room they practiced in in one of the music buildings. On some level he hoped whoever they were auditioning that day was horrible enough to be fired before Roger made it up the few flights of stairs and shoved the door open.

“Sorry I’m late,” said Roger, not bothering to sound sincere. He threw his bag down, waved to Brian, Freddie, and looked at the stranger with the bass in his lap.

He could hear hints of Brian’s chiding him for being late, Freddie defending him for the same thing, but mostly his hearing whited out as he stared at Deacon, and Deacon stared back. He looked so small behind his bass, blushing and wearing a high collar to cover the marks Roger made two or three nights ago.

“You alright?” said Freddie, waving a hand in his field of view.

“What—er, yes, yes, just fine,” said Roger. “Didn’t get much sleep.”

“Neither did I,” said Freddie. “I really do think we ought to tell that construction crew to start later in the day, I mean—I know that many people are awake at eight in the morning but I am simply not one of them, I’ve had it!”

“Fred, can we at least pretend to be professional,” laughed Brian.

“Why start now,” said Freddie with a grin in Deacon’s direction.

Well, not Deacon, he had a real name. “Sorry,” Roger took a step towards him, “what was your name again?”

“Again?” Freddie scoffed. “You haven’t introduced yourself. Wrong order, dear.”

“Right,” said Roger with an awkward laugh. He closed the gap between him and Deacon and reached a hand out for him to take. “I’m Roger.”

“Oh,” said Deacon with a cocked head. “I’m John.”

“Oh,” said Roger. He eyed ‘John’ the same way John eyed him. Trying to rewrite the memory with new names that sounded foreign to their ears.

“He’s usually more charismatic than this,” laughed Freddie.

“I’m sure,” squeaked John. His cheeks turned that same shade of pink Roger remembered so fondly.

“Alright, we’ve not got much time left in here _thanks to a certain two arseholes_ , so let’s hurry.”

Roger struck each drum and counted him and John off. Every audition went in this order. Seeing how quickly they could get locked in with Roger, seeing if they could follow when Roger changed the speed, changed the time signature, seeing if they could even tell he’d done either, and listening to how they sounded together. Then Brian would layer in a melody see how the bassist responded to it. So far, they’d only made it to Brian’s part of the audition about four times, and each of those times it took ages for the bassist to realise Roger switched from 4/4 to 6/8 no matter how many big crashes and fills he did to reset the pattern.

But with John it was instant. Locked in from the countoff. He so expertly fiddled with grooves and patterns on his bass that more than once, when Roger got a bit too mesmerised, John guided him back to the count. Freddie, not one really for rhythm other than to keep the time, hummed along with the bass quietly, sketching as he went. Without a word Brian joined in effortlessly. They had a few good bassists they liked, bassists they could get by with, but none that played as if they could read Roger and Brian’s mind, predict where the music was headed.

“Oi! Five minutes, and it’s ours,” said the first clarinet from the orchestra, peeking his head in.

“Fuck off, we’ve got five minutes,” grumbled Roger.

“We’re done, don’t worry,” said Brian with a grin. In their earlier days, before Freddie, that same clarinet player had mentioned something about how they weren’t playing real music, ever since then Roger detuned the drumkit before their practice time began.

“What do we think boys?” said Freddie, sloppily packing his things up.

“Should we deliberate in front of him?” said Brian with a nervous laugh.

“I can—” John jumped up, “I can step out.”

“It’ll just be a moment,” said Freddie as John hurried out the door, bass in hand.

Brian kept his eye on the door and waited until it shut. “I mean,” his voice was low, as if John might be listening in. Roger knew if he were in John’s shoes he’d be eavesdropping, “what all is there to say? This is a formality at this point.”

“I think he still needs a trial run,” said Freddie.

“Why’s that?” Roger shoved his sticks into his bag. Both were frayed and splintered beyond belief but the bulk of his money was still in cash and not in a bank so he taped them and prayed to every deity to keep them from snapping.

“He saw you and turned beet red, lost the ability to fucking speak. He was chitchatting away before you came in,” said Freddie with a snort.

“What’re you implying?” Roger hung his bag off his shoulder and tried very hard to remember the assignment he never wrote down because he was sure he’d remember it.

“That he’s shy, especially around the more…facially blessed of us.”

“You do flatter me with your clinical language,” said Roger with a grin.

“Well—if he’s blushing like that for _you_ , imagine what he’ll do for an audience. He needs to be broken in,” said Freddie. “If he can’t play for an audience he can’t play.”

“You’re just jealous he didn’t get flustered when he saw you,” said Roger.

“I’m with Freddie,” Brian flicked the clasps on his guitar case shut, “we’ll have to see him perform but if that goes smoothly, he’s the best one we’ve auditioned. Doesn’t move as fast or flashy as some of the others but—I mean—he’s nineteen, he has time to improve and the important shit is already second nature.”

“What’s got your tongue?” said Freddie. “You’re normally halfway through a monologue by now.”

“Just tired,” said Roger. In truth he wasn’t sure what to say. John was the best bassist, and he’d grow to be even better. But part of him felt odd even weighing in. Felt like it was a conflict of interest either way. He didn’t know if he wanted a bassist who knew so much about the life he kept secret, knew every last intimate detail. But, on the other hand, he knew the same about John. And he liked John, and he’d moped about not seeing him again for days now, it felt like a kind of kismet. Kismet that made him too biased to really give an opinion. “Objectively, he’s by and large the best player to play with, and Brian’s right he’ll only get better so, no sense in not trying him out is there?”

“John! Can you come back in,” called Freddie. He cracked the door open, peeped in cautiously and took a step through the doorway. “Don’t look so afraid, it’s good news.”

“It is?” said John, looking pointedly at Roger who was quick to avert his eyes.

“Trial run,” said Brian. “We’ll practice for our next gig, perform it with you, and if you don’t pass out at the sight of a crowd you’re in.”

The congratulations Brian and Freddie gave him were overlapped and interspersed with repeated thanks from John. Roger threw his own words of congratulation in, a little awkward and much quieter than the others, but he heard a thanks from John either way.

“And I’m terribly sorry dear but I’m about to fail one of my classes, I can’t be out celebrating with you three tonight,” said Freddie.

“Oh—that’s fine,” began John.

“You can’t?” said Brian, a little put out. “I can’t either, I’ve got papers, Fred.”

“That’s not my fault now is it?”

“I don’t need a celebration,” said John. “I don’t quite have the job yet anyway.”

“Ah—perfect, we’ll have a proper celebration once you’ve blown us all away,” said Freddie, reaching over to pinch his cheek. Roger smirked at the way John didn’t duck away from that. “Until then I’m sure Roger can entertain you.”

“Can I?” said Roger.

“Yes you can,” said Freddie pointedly.

“Don’t force him on Roger,” said Brian.

“What’s that supposed to mean?” said Roger.

“That you’re a pest,” said Brian behind a laugh.

“Fuck off ‘pest’.”

“Please, no fighting in front of our new child,” said Freddie. It earned him a few smiled and a few laughs.

Brian said his goodbyes, running late for his tutoring hours that Roger was sure no one attended. Freddie walked with the two of them through the building, complaining about why ‘a few measly missing assignments’ could tank his grade so spectacularly. Once they made it out into the sun and the cold air, Freddie reminded Roger they were clear out of milk and eggs and he ought to pick some up because they both knew Freddie wouldn’t.

“Nice meeting and hiring you preemptively John,” said Freddie as he shook his hand. “See you at home, Rog,” he added, with a cheesy, cartoonish kiss to his cheek.

He watched longingly as the last barrier between him and John scurried off to the art building and left him with a very uncomfortable conversation ahead of him.

“So er,” began John.

“Yeah, it’s…” said Roger with a tense laugh. “C’mon, my van’s this way.”

“Oh, god—now?” said John.

“What—no, no, fuck’s sake, I was just offering you a ride home,” said Roger.

John laughed at himself, blushed too. He blushed so easily, so prominently. Not very rock and roller of him but endearing all the same. “Sorry I—it’s on my mind.”

“Mine too,” said Roger. “Y’know you didn’t mention you were auditioning for Smile.”

“I,” he shrugged, “I was a little preoccupied that night. And you never mentioned you were auditioning bassists either.”

“Didn’t want you to ask to try out,” said Roger.

“I figured you wouldn’t.” The pair crossed the street, Roger leading a bit until John caught up. “And I can…I can quit if you don’t want me to…”

“You don’t have to fucking quit,” said Roger with a laugh. “I would’ve vetoed you if I wanted you gone that bad.” They turned into the tiny carpark Roger always had to squeeze into when he drove to class, or to practice. “Maybe it’s better? That we’re not perfect strangers? Better for the music?”

“Maybe?”

Roger unlocked the back of his van and swung the doors open for John to load up his bass. Roger watched the way his eyes flitted around the interior, his face burning red as he slid his guitar case along the floor. Still so virginal. He traced his fingers over Roger’s dashboard, focusing on little details Roger had never paid any mind to, things that obviously had stuck in John’s memory.

“So is Freddie like…is he your…your boyfriend or something?” said John. Roger looked over to him, he kept his eyes locked on the airvent.

“Fuck makes you say that?”

“He’s real…touchy. Said you two live together, I don’t know,” John’s voice was meek, his posture even meeker.

“No,” said Roger, trying not to smile. “No he’s not.”

“Oh?” John perked up a bit.

“What would you care anyway?” said Roger.

“I didn’t like the idea of my first being an affair,” said John.

Roger smiled, mostly to himself, and turned the radio up when a song he liked started. John liked it too, knew all the words and sang them with Roger. Off key and awful, Roger was sure to tease him for it and promise him he’d not help with the harmonies which was fine by John who kept belting out the wrong notes.

“Turn here?” said Roger, eyeing a cross street.

“Next one,” said John.

“It looks so different in the daylight,” said Roger with a laugh. John laughed with him, more of a squeak. So easy to get him worked up and embarrassed. He turned onto his street and remembered enough to pull up to the right building. Roger switched the van off and got out with John to unlock the back for him. He heaved the doors open for John and let him slide his bass out.

“Thanks for the ride,” said John, squinting into the sun.

“Yeah,” said Roger, leant against the backdoor of his van. “Thanks for not being obvious back there.”

“You too,” added John with a laugh.

Roger throat tightened the way it had the first night they met. John’s laugh, his smile overtook him so easily. And when he first felt it the night they met he’d asked to kiss him. And in the moment he wondered if he ought to ask again. “I’ll see you at practice?”

“Mhm,” said John, clutching his bass tight. If it weren’t for the broad daylight, the cumbersome bass, the lack of excuse for Freddie, he might’ve offered to throw John in the back of his van for a repeat show.

“Ah,” Roger shook his hands out, laughed at himself and slammed his van shut, “have a good night, Deaky—sorry—John.”

“You too, Tay—Rog,” said John, laughing at his correction and scurrying up to his building.

Roger didn’t know if he looked back, too nervous to check. He started up his van and peeled away from the curb as fast as he could, his hands shaking against the steering wheel as he did.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello! Thank you for the lovely comments, they make my day!! <333 I'm glad you're all enjoying this so far, I hope you enjoy this chapter as well and please let me know if you do :)) <3333

Roger watched through the mirror as Freddie lined John’s eyes. He flinched often and each time he did Freddie giggled at him. Roger couldn’t imagine he’d do much better with Freddie jabbing a pencil in his eyes. As the drummer he had an excuse not to pack on a bunch of makeup he’d sweat off, makeup the audience wouldn’t even see. But even so, Freddie already pinned him and spread eyeshadow over his lids.

“You do this every show?” said John.

Freddie dabbed on dark bluish brown to John’s eyelids. A shadow of his creation after two of his shattered and he blended them together. They all four used it and Roger had to admit it looked quite striking with his blue eyes, with Freddie’s brown eyes. On John and Brian it more or less disappeared unless they kept their eyes shut.

“Every show so far,” said Freddie.

“You’ll get used to it,” said Roger.

“Is this supposed to look good?” John eyed himself in the mirror.

“It does look good,” said Freddie. John kept turning his head, getting a look at the makeup from all different angles. It did look good, though Roger wasn’t sure if that was the makeup or John’s bone structure doing the work.

“I don’t look like a clown?”

“The hell kind of clown wears makeup like this?” said Brian with a laugh.

“You look good,” reassured Roger, eyes locked on John’s through the mirror.

“Oh get a room,” teased Freddie. And while Roger could laugh that off, John averted his eyes like he’d been caught in the act.

They got their five minute warning, then their two minute warning and headed out to the wings. Roger always brought up the rear. He didn’t like to rush out on stage and sit down behind a big kit, he preferred to have the audience linger on him a little longer. As the four of the meandered down the empty halls to the backstage stairway, Roger could see John’s hands nervously drumming against his bass, could hear the few errant hits against the string ringing. And when they paused and waited for their cue he tugged on his sleeve and looked into his painted eyes and breathed, “don’t be nervous.”

John stared back, a little stunned, a little pink, and nodded. And took an awkward step into Roger, reached a tentative hand out for him. Roger might’ve leaned into it, might’ve. But their cue came and Freddie rushed the stage with dramatic greetings and introductions for everyone.

John wasn’t shy for the audience. He wasn’t the showman Freddie was, no one could reach that level of theatricality. But he was still more subdued than Brian. The first ten or fifteen minutes had Roger worried John might not be capable of bringing the same level of energy of him Brian and Freddie. But even with his eyes downcast and his few ventures to the microphone short and embarrassed, he danced. Horrible jerking motions that made Roger laugh. And he played with power. Power Roger couldn’t really imagine coming from him in any other setting.

He hung around the drum kit. The same way Freddie would do to get a few more eyes on Roger, to get a few more cheers or whistles in their direction. But Roger had a feeling John was by his kit, awkwardly catching his eye then looking away, for the comfort. Freddie and Brian knew that in their week or two of practice, the two of them had got close, but they couldn’t guess the extent of it. And Roger liked that. Liked the idea that, on the outside, their friendship was random and intense and borderline inexplicable. He liked that no one could guess his muddled interest in him, or the muddled interest he hoped John had in him.

Hope was generous. If John weren’t lingering by his kit for most of the show, if he weren’t avoiding his looks for too long and leaning into his touches like he might never get them again, then he’d just have hope. As it stood, Roger was sure all that emotion and desire that he couldn’t quite name but couldn’t stop thinking of was reciprocated in John. In the way he’d way to the music by Roger’s ride cymbal, look at Roger and pluck his bass so expertly, so effortlessly, his eyes full of excitement and fear. Roger couldn’t help but be reminded of where he’d seen that look on him before.

By the end of the night, John was wandering the stage all on his own. Dancing around like a man slowly coming out of a seizure and hitting his bass hard to help end the night with a bang.

~~~

“To our newest member!” Freddie held up a pint, the other three scrambled to do the same before clinking their glasses together and downing mouthfuls of lager.

“You really were good,” said Brian. “Much better than my first stage gig.”

“That’s ‘cause it’s not his first stage gig,” said Roger.

“How’d you know that?” said Brian with a cocked head.

“My first real stage gig,” added John. “Never seen an audience quite that big.”

“Well you didn’t let it show,” assured Freddie. “You’re a real natural on stage.”

“A natural hermit,” laughed John. “I don’t have that flash like you and Brian, even Roger behind the kit.”

“You balance it,” said Freddie, genuine enough to make John grin that beautiful grin that reached his eyes and lit his whole face up.

“A real lucky find you were,” said Brian.

“Real lucky,” added Roger with a wink.

John was shy when he thanked him and timid when they layered on the compliments. But eager to schedule their next practice, their next gig, their next brainstorm for the new stuff they were working on. John promised not to interfere with anything lyrically, even melodically, said he didn’t have a real creative streak. Not one creative enough to write a whole song. Freddie teased him, disagreed, and made him promise he’d get them a few songs down the line. Once Freddie got that nod of agreement out of him, once the last round was put away and paid for, they meandered out.

Roger unlocked his van for Brian and John. His drums were stacked inside a bit precariously, so working their guitars out of the mess became a puzzle, a puzzle Roger never had any intention of helping with. Brian got his guitar free first, complaining all the way about how he’d miss his bus home, how he’d lost too much time and wouldn’t be able to grade. And if it weren’t for Brian’s paycheck paying for his and Freddie’s emergency food every now and then, Roger would tell him to quit his fucking job. Maybe then he’d be less of a tit when they had the misfortune of practicing after one of his classes.

“You know, you ought to think about getting a real job too,” Brian tugged his guitar free, no longer worried if he toppled Roger’s drums.

“God, you’re really selling the idea,” laughed Roger.

“Don’t listen to him,” said Brian to John.

“Never have,” teased John.

“I’ll see everyone tomorrow, bright and early at four,” said Brian with a few steps backwards. Freddie waved a goodnight to him as he scurried off to catch his bus. Roger prayed he got a good night’s sleep for everyone’s sake but mostly so he wouldn’t have to hear him complain about it later on.

John groaned and ripped his bass free with one last tug and took a step back to catch himself from falling.

“Well done, Deaky.” Freddie clapped his shoulders. “I’ll see you tomorrow—Did Brian already give you the sheets for that song we’re trying?”

“The sheets?” John looked between Freddie and Roger like a guilty child.

“Hm,” said Freddie thoughtfully. “Fuck,” he added with a laugh. “Is it alright if he gets them to you early tomorrow?”

“Sure—sure that’s fine,” said John. Roger had a feeling it wasn’t. Rhythm sections were known for the last minute notice on changes and last minute apologies for turning down their levels while mixing. He didn’t really expect the singer and the guitarist to understand that.

“Sorry it slipped my mind, I should’ve asked before he ran off,” Freddie squeezed his wrist. “Well, hurry home and get good rest. Brian’s always in a shit mood after he’s come back from class, practice’ll be hell tomorrow..”

“Oh I can’t wait,” laughed John.

“He’s not so bad,” offered Roger.

“We’ll see,” said Freddie with a sigh. “G’night John, excellent work out there, darling, you’re a born star.”

“I don’t know about that,” said John with a shy smile as Freddie rounded the corner and hopped in the passenger’s seat. Roger waved at him through the beaded curtain and slammed the doors shut, locked them up and lingered out there, in the open privacy of the empty carpark, with John.

“You were amazing you know that?” said Roger.

“You all keep saying that…” the thought trailed off. Too self-depricating to finish maybe.

“And the eyeshadow did suit you.” Roger reached up, brushed the messy fringe out of his eyes.

“Thanks,” whispered John. He reached up with his free hand, rested his fingertips just under Roger’s open collar. his thumb and index finger fiddled with the little brass pendant that hung there, fiddled with the edges of the fabric. Roger carded his hand through John’s hair, slow and casual, as if he weren’t thinking too hard about what he was doing. But he was.

“Oi!” came Freddie’s voice out the window, a honk accompanying it. “I need my beauty rest!”

“Sorry!” said Roger through a sharp breath in. He turned back to John. His face red with guilt, his eyes wide with panic and his hands tight on his guitar case. “I guess, I’ll see you tomorrow.”

“I guess so,” said John. “G’night, Rog.”

“Night Deaky.”

Roger watched him take a step or two towards his train stop, might’ve watched him walk the whole way if Freddie hadn’t honked the horn once more. Roger waved to him, though John didn’t see it, and hurried to the driver’s seat.

~~~

“I found a shop we can poach off of for the stall by the way.” For more of the ride home Freddie hummed along to the radio, his voice too thin to really sing after such a long night. But as they got a few blocks away from home he got more chatty. “It’s good stuff I think, looks good anyway.”

“Last time you said that, everything in the shop looked mad. Totally unwearable shite.” Roger pulled into their parking space. Difficult for most as it was just a bit under the standard size, but easy for Roger.

“Everything we sell is unwearable on some level. The charm comes from how we modify it to be fashionable. Or at least marketable as fashionable,” laughed Freddie.

“Fine,” said Roger with a half hearted eye roll, “we’ll check it out but I swear if you make me buy some frilly edwardian collar or something equally vile I’ll quit.”

“Quit and do what pretty boy? Work a real job? With real hours? And a boss?” Freddie scoffed as over dramatically as he could and swung his door open. Roger followed him and locked up both their doors. He was always extra careful to check the locks when his drums were inside.

“You never know,” Roger took the steps up to their flat two at a time, “I could hold down a real job.”

“Your boss would ask you to cut your mop of a hairstyle and you’d quit right there and then,” said Freddie as he worked their locks open.

“Well any boss that would unfairly ask me, a free man, to cut my gorgeous hair is clearly drunk with power,” Roger hung his jacket up on the peg by the door. Freddie tossed his keys on the little table they kept next to their couch. Roger picked his keys back up and loudly dropped them in the keybowl by the door. It’d been months of trying to break Freddie of his habit of dropping his keys on the first surface he saw and losing them within minutes.

“Alright, darling, you go get a job in an office with your haircut and your clothes and I’ll give you every last penny I have,” said Freddie.

“I wouldn’t take money from you, I know damn well you’re in the double digits,” teased Roger.

“And yet you keep asking for my half of the rent,” Freddie sucked his teeth and kicked his shoes off. “You’re a real tyrant.”

Roger laughed and kicked his shoes into his room. Freddie had a habit of making some tea his parents gave him every night. Something with a name Roger couldn’t pronounce or remember he just knew the smell of it meant bedtime. He’d developed a habit of sitting in the kitchen until Freddie offered him a cup.

“So tell me honestly, do you like John?” Freddie stirred his tea, Roger did the same.

“Of course I do.” Roger focused on his tea, trying to put the image of John in that eyeshadow, those leather trouser out of his mind. Tried to forget how shy and desperate he looked in that moment alone behind Roger’s van.

“You seem so lukewarm,” said Freddie. “I know he needs to come out of his shell a bit but I think he’s good.”

“I do too.” Roger ran his fingertips over a deep scratch in their table and grit his teeth thinking of how badly he wanted John right then. How badly he’d wanted him all night. All fucking night watching him thrust against his bass and look back at Roger with flushed cheeks and hazy eyes.

“He lingered around your kit all night,” said Freddie. “I think he’s taken a shine to you.”

“Did he?” said Roger. As if he hadn’t spent the whole night counting the seconds until John was back by the kit, smiling at him over the cymbals. “I hadn’t noticed.”

“He reminds me of Brian in that way,” said Freddie. “Both clinging to you to do the talking for them, it’s sort of cute.”

“Yes well,” said Roger, growing more and more unable to contribute to the conversation as the thoughts of how incredible John looked under those lights, with Freddie’s clothes draped over him, with the eyeshadow darkening his eyes just a bit.

“Oi what’s, what’s,” Freddie pointed somewhere behind Roger. Roger checked over his shoulder and saw nothing but their messy kitchen counter. How Freddie had spotted anything particular out of the chaos was a miracle. He stood and took the top sheet off the pile of papers that sat there. Bills and lists, and notices about missing the bills, and bills for missing the bills, and occasionally a check from a venue. “Shit.”

“How much do we owe?” said Roger.

“None,” Freddie handed him the sheet of paper. “That’s bass music.”

Roger took the photocopy and stared at Brian’s strangely pristine handwriting amongst the sloppy notes and music staffs that just barely fit in the page. “Yeah…this is bass music.”

“I swore I made the copy and gave it Brian days ago,” Freddie sighed and snatched it back.

“It’s not a big deal,” Roger shrugged.

“Poor Deaky’s going to get hell from Brian for not knowing the music off hand and I’m the reason he didn’t have it in time. What if he fucking quits—”

“He won’t quit,” laughed Roger. “It’s not like he’ll get much practice in tonight anyway. It’ll be fine to hand off in the morning.”

“I guess,” Freddie stared at the sheet music with big sad eyes.

“Or,” said Roger, surprising himself, “I could take it over.”

“I can do it—” began Freddie.

“You can’t drive,” said Roger. “I’m fine to take it, really.” He stood, eased the photocopy from Freddie’s hands and folded it up in his pocket.

“You’re sure? I feel horrible making you drive all the way over,” said Freddie.

“It’s a short drive,” said Roger. “No trouble really.”

Freddie thanked him, apologised some more, but Roger couldn’t hear most of it in his rush to get out, to get down to the van, to screech his tires on the asphalt as he pulled out onto the main road.

~~~

Roger double checked his pockets for the sheet music after he’d knocked on the door. Part of him wasn’t entirely sure he’d even brought it with.

“Who is it?” said an unfamiliar voice on the other side of John’s door.

“Er, it’s Roger.” For a moment he wondered if he’d mixed up the flats and was about to barge in on some stranger’s night. “Is John in?”

“Oh—hold on.”

A boy about John’s age answered the door. Roger vaguely remembered John talking about his roommates the night they met. Said they were both alright, both meatheads but nice enough.

“Roger from the band right?”

“Er, yeah,” he smiled awkwardly, “is he in?”

“Come through, he’s in his room.”

Roger took a step inside. Marveled at how much more put together the whole place seemed. The wallpaper wasn’t peeling, the floorboards weren’t cracked, there wasn’t lingering stench of weed or cigarettes. Suddenly he felt a little embarrassed thinking of the look of horror on John’s face when he’d first come by to his and Freddie’s.

“And hey, if you all need a keyboardist,” said John’s roommate.

“I’ll keep you on file,” said Roger dismissively. The time it would’ve taken to ask which room was John’s was the same amount of time it took to check himself and peek into each one until he saw John’s face.

He sat as his desk, focused hard on something, his eyes never drifting off the page until Roger pushed his door open just a bit further. Took a step into his room.

“Rog—what’re you doing here?”

Roger smiled at how lit up, how happy John looked to see him. “Well, turns out,” he took the paper from his jacket pocket, “Freddie never gave the photocopy to Brian. Figured I’d drop it by before practice tomorrow, let you look over it.”

John took the folded up sheet music, whispered a thanks, and unfolded it, glanced over the charts before he looked back up at Roger, a wide smile on his face. “Thanks for coming all this way.”

Roger let his foot close the door, and hopped up on the edge of John’s desk, half his weight on his opposite leg keeping him steady. “Homework?”

“Sort of,” John turned the paper to face Roger as if he might understand it, “I’m building this amp for Brian—well, for a guitar anyway. Hopefully, Brian can use it.”

“Boy genius,” said Roger quietly, his eyes raked over the maths on the paper.

“I’m no genius,” laughed John,

“So humble,” Roger brushed John’s fringe off his forehead, gentle movements and light tugs on his hair as his hand moved through his dark locks.

“So,” squeaked John, face red enough for Roger to crack a smile, “so’s that all you came here for?”

“Mm,” hummed Roger. “Unless you got something else for me.”

John stared at him for a few beats of silence. Beats that felt like eternities. In those moments Roger seriously wondered if he’d miscalculated, if he’d come on too strong and done something he couldn’t take back. He might’ve pulled his hand away, muttered an apology, and escorted himself out.

But John broke that deafening quiet with, “why don’t you lock the door.”

“Straight away huh?” teased Roger as he turned the lock in John’s doorknob.

“Don’t you want to—” began John, his cheek was hot to the touch as Roger’s thumb moved across it, as his fingers trailed down his jaw.

“I want to,” reassured Roger, cutting that train of thought off before it could derail itself. “Well come on then.” Roger stood from John’s desk, tugged on his collar as he went, and sat on his bed. On his tiny twin bed. John came to him, in a daze, with pupils so wide Roger could barely see the colour in them anymore.

He patted the open expanse of duvet for John to sit, and tucked his hair behind his ear once he had. “A twin bed’s no good for fucking, Deaky.”

“I don’t do much of that,” said John, as bashful as ever.

“I—I know, just teasing,” laughed Roger. His hand moved from John’s hair down to his shoulder, to his waist, to his hip.

“We have to be quiet,” said John. “My roommates.”

“It’s not up to _me_ if someone hears,” said Roger, eyes locked on John’s as he tugged his belt open. “Never heard someone whine like you.”

“God is it that bad?” said John, dead serious.

“Don’t get self-conscious,” said Roger, haphazardly kissing him, quick and sloppy, pushing his belt to the side and unbuttoning his trousers. “I love how loud you were.”

“Really?” John looked just as virginal as the first time around. Just as surprised that Roger wanted him.

Roger nodded with a grin, pulled him into a kiss, and dragged him down into the mattress, slotting their legs together, grinding against him real need.

He was still shy, maybe even more so now, without the darkness of Roger’s van to conceal anything. He held his own body more than Roger’s, eager to hide it from him. Roger fought him on it. Uncrossed his arms, pressed himself so tight against John there was no way to hide. John moaned in his ear, as quiet as he could, and reached out for his side table. Roger opened the drawer for him, found the lube for him, and uncapped the bottle.

John stayed quiet for one finger, and bit his lip for two, and muffled himself in Roger’s shoulder for three.

“This bottle’s half gone,” said Roger, under his breath. “Must fuck yourself pretty often.” John nodded and threw his head back when Roger curled his fingers. “Ever think of me?”

“Always,” breathed John, his eyes on Roger, his cheeks bright red. “Do you? D’you think of me?”

“Why do you think I’m here,” said Roger. He curled his fingers one more time and kissed John to quiet him.

Roger swore when he sank into John. John could only whine in return, whine and arch off his bed, his hands gripping the tangled sheets. Roger held onto him, his thigh, his hip, and moved with an intensity, a deep arching need he didn’t often have. A desire to overwhelm himself in John. Every creak in the hall, every muffled piece of conversation between John’s roommates had them both holding their breath. Roger had to slow down then, there wasn’t much else he could do to shut John up.

“They’re asleep, they’ve got to be,” whispered John. His hips moved up to meet Roger’s, overtly begging for him to keep moving, to move faster.

“You sure?” said Roger, just above a whisper. John nodded, moved his hips up again, whispered a quiet ‘please’, and left Roger powerless to resist him. To resist fucking him in earnest, with as much force and desperation as he wanted. Pushing in deep and staying there, letting John feel himself so full up with Roger before pulling out to do it again. John wasn’t loud when he came in Roger’s hand, across his stomach, but he wasn’t quiet. Roger kissed him quiet and groaned into his mouth when he came across John’s stomach, adding to the mess already there.

Roger kissed him with a newfound exhaustion, laziness, and fell to his side. “You’re pretty good at this, considering it’s your second time.”

“How do you know it’s my second?” John turned to him.

“It…It is isn’t it?” Roger’s heart caught in his throat. It’d only been a week or two, three at most since Roger took him in his van, how could he have—

“It is,” said John, turning his head back to stare at the ceiling, “but you didn’t _know_.”

“Suppose not,” said Roger with a sigh of relief. Relief from tension he didn’t understand. “But, still. Good.”

“All I do is lie there, I can’t be that good,” said John.

“You lie there… _enthusiastically_ ,” said Roger with a laugh. “And…I wouldn’t mind helping you get better at it. We could…practice…if you like.”

John made some noise, like the beginning of a few different words before he turned back to look at Roger. “I’d…like that.”

“Well…good,” said Roger. Every ounce of him flooded with excitement, thinking of having John with no pretense, no need to for excuse just open, earnest desire.

“God, I was supposed to finish working on the amp shit,” laughed John. He reached by his bedside for the shorts Roger tore off him earlier and wiped his chest clean.

“C’mon, that was more fun than maths,” said Roger. He sat up, already trying to concoct the excuse for Freddie, the explanation for why he’d been out about an hour longer than he planned. He rubbed his face tiredly, felt John’s hand come to rest on his lower back.

“Won’t you stay?”

Roger turned to look at him. “Stay?”

“Stay here, sleep here, stay the night,” said John with a tense laugh. “Unless…that’s not part of it.”

“I…” Roger wasn’t sure if it was part of it. Could it still count as casual fun, as consequent free fun if he was staying over. He’d never got this far with anyone before really. Even in the days when he still thought women were a viable option he was quick to say goodnight and sleep alone. But either way, “I told Freddie I’d be right back.”

“Of course—of course,” said John.

His words were tense, his body was too. Roger didn’t know how to soothe it, didn’t have the answers to his questions, hadn’t thought it through enough to know. So he leant back down, kissed him, kissed his forehead, kissed his cheek, his jaw and whispered in his ear, “I’ll see you tomorrow.”

John watched him get dressed, all bunched up on his bed, his sheets draped lazily over him. Roger couldn’t help grin at the sight of him, so small and so dainty in a strange way. A sort of fragility that only came in moments like these. Most always he looked, came off and seemed like any other rather stiff, gruff boy with hair a bit too long.

“I do like that…y’know you’re all tough until it’s just us two,” Roger knelt on his bed, cupped his face.

“I don’t feel tough ever,” said John with a laugh.

“I don’t know if anyone does.” He kissed him with all the passion that had yet to leave him. The lingering lust and need that he hadn’t quite fucked out of his system. “G’night Deaky.”

“Goodnight.”

John didn’t offer to walk him out, Roger wouldn’t have accepted. He flicked his lights off for him and shut his door and did his best to leave without creaking too many floor boards on his way.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

“Roger,” called Freddie through the apartment, his voice sleepy. “Roger is that you?”

“Who else would it be?” laughed Roger. He hung his jacket up, threw his keys on the nearest counter, and started flicking off lights as he meandered back towards his bedroom.

“What took so long,” Freddie appeared in his door, moments before Roger could slide into his room and shut the door.

“Dunno,” Roger shrugged. “Got to chatting.”

“Chatting?” Freddie crossed his arms. “At two am on a Tuesday, what the fuck’s there to chat about?”

Roger shrugged again. “Deaky’s building this amp, he was just…rambling about it. Nothing deep, just chat.”

“Hm.”

“What ‘hm’?” said Roger, sounding too defensive even to his own ears. “What’re you implying.”

“I’m not implying anything,” Freddie held his hands up in surrender. “Why—what did you think I was implying?”

“I...I don’t know.”

“You seem pretty defensive for not knowing,” said Freddie. “Why do you look so guilty?”

“Fuckin’ hell, are you my mother?” said Roger. He laughed but the tone of his words gave away his defensive mood, his scared anger.

“What happened?” repeated Freddie, a similar fake laugh covering his real concern and curiosity.

“What would’ve happened?” said Roger. A serious question, a plea for Freddie to fill in the blanks of what he suspected so Roger could fake it, could lie into it.

“I think he told you he hates me,” said Freddie with a suppressed yawn and his arms tight across his chest. “I think he thinks I’m too,” he gestured vaguely, “too much.”

“He’d never,” said Roger with a grin and pat to Freddie’s shoulder, buying time for the lie he was trying desperately to concoct. “We got to talking about the amp he’s building and he just…went on about meshing with everyone. He’s only worried over Brian, thinks he’s not in his good graces.”

“Did you tell him Bri’s just quiet—” began Freddie.

“I did,” Roger reassured. “Talked it all out. He’s just so…so young and I think a little intimidated by how close we three are. It wasn’t any big deal.”

“Then why’d I have to squeeze it out of you?” said Freddie. Roger held his breath for a split second trying to come up with an answer.

“I—He asked me not to say.” _Good start_ , thought Roger. “Once I talked him out of it he realised it was silly and didn’t think it was worth repeating.”

“Oh…Well, alright,” said Freddie.

He looked unsatisfied with Roger’s lie, Roger was too. But it was believable and that’s all he cared about. It was believeable enough that Freddie left it at that. The he offered him more tea and moved on to thanking him for delivering the music. Roger’d forgot he did that, forgot that was the whole reason he went, and silently kicked himself for not lying with that. Saying he took so long because he was watching John practice it or something equally innocuous.

Once he’d successfully declined Freddie’s offer for more tea, he shut himself up in his cramped little room, stripped down and found something a little warmer to sleep in, and, alone in bed, he found he wished he’d stayed with John.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This one got away from me I admit. It was longer than I thought it would end up being, so it took a long while to edit and ultimately re-edit but I hope you all enjoy! I saw a few comments sort of guessing what might happen in this chapter haha!! You guys are on to me!! Please comment if you and thank you all for the comments so far <3

“Fuck fuck,” groaned Roger in John’s ear. Just loud enough for him to hear. John whined, clawed across his back, arched off his bed and came in Roger’s hand, which gave Roger permission to finally do the same. It’d been weeks upon weeks now of Roger making excuses to go out and meet these mystery women he told Freddie about, and each time ended with him in John’s bedroom. After two, maybe three times, John insisted he only come by once his roommates were all asleep. A few times they’d both been too eager for it and parked Roger’s van a block away.

But for tonight he was in John’s bedroom, quieting himself in the crook of his neck, and shaking with every little movement. Once he caught his breath, he held his hand up to the scant light, hummed as he admired the mess John made before licking it up.

“God, I…I love when you do that,” sighed John. In the heat of things he was loud and outspoken about what he wanted it and how hard, but as soon as he came that shyness crept back in at lightning speed.

“Don’t get all red _now_ ,” teased Roger. If Roger looked his way he’d go a bit pink, after a good fuck he was flushed and glowing, but he could always still coax another level of embarrassment out of him.

John rolled his eyes, shoved Roger’s shoulder, and pretended to be bothered when Roger fell to his side and wrapped his legs around him, draped an arm across him. In all his time at the pub with strange men, he’d never felt the urge to hold any of them. For all he knew, he just wasn’t the type. But with John the night didn’t feel over until he did.

“You’re warm,” mumbled Roger into his hair.

“You warmed me up,” chuckled John.

Roger hummed, nuzzled against him. “I could fall asleep right here.”

“Why don’t you?” said John. The answer was always that Roger didn’t tell Freddie he’d be staying over. An excuse that worked for the first few times, but left Roger stumped in silence when John asked why he wouldn’t just make up a better lie for Freddie. Since then, John stopped asking really. They both knew the real answer and that was that Roger’d drawn a line at sleepovers, crossing it meant something.

“Er—Freddie,” said Roger, noncommittally.

“Right,” said John with a quiet laugh, adding, “I know,” under his breath. He stayed there for awhile, leeching off John’s warmth, feeling his heartbeat against his palm, feeling the way it slowed the closer John got to falling asleep. The closer they both got to sleep.

“I should go,” whispered Roger, both him and John on the edge of sleep. He sat up, John scratched light on his back and tempted him to stay for awhile longer, but he didn’t, he couldn’t. He stood, started rummaging around for the clothes John threw clear across the room, and smiled over at John as he dressed himself with a lot of effort. His tired muscles begged him to just lay down and sleep. “Get good sleep, practice is early tomorrow.”

“It’s at ten,” said John with a grin.

“Like I said,” Roger knelt on his bed, leant down to kiss him quick, “early.”

“Goodnight Rog,” John’s hand lingered against his chest.

“Goodnight John,” Roger stood up and did his best to quiet the loud creak of John’s door on his way out.

He shut it just as quiet and meandered down the hall on his usual route, walking closer to the walls and avoiding the spots he knew would creak and crack under his weight.

“Leaving already?”

Roger accidentally stomped his foot down, nearly tripped, and looked around for whoever’d spoken. John’s roommate stood in the kitchen, stirring something in a mug and smiling politely at Roger.

“Thought you were asleep,” said Roger, nothing else came to mind, not even the man’s name.

“It sure sounded like you thought I was asleep.” John’s roommate looked away from him, a bit more awkward than he was intimidating.

“What’s that supposed to mean?” Roger took a step towards him.

“It doesn’t mean anything,” said John’s roommate, his words coming out a little quicker.

He’d never been caught before, didn’t have much experience lying about it. Though it didn’t really sound like he’d have a shot at defending himself or lying about whatever was overheard. Was he supposed to grovel, beg John’s roommate to keep it quiet. He wasn’t really in the mood to be blackmailed by some gangly teenager. He wasn’t honestly in the mood to do much other than going home and sleeping.

So he did just that. He didn’t bother with the creaking floor on the way out and ignored the quiet goodnights given from John’s roommate. He hurried down the steps and out to his van and held his breath while the engine took it’s time turning over. He didn’t stop moving, fidgeting, distracting himself until he hit his first red light. He chewed his lip, gripped the steering wheel a little tighter and took a few moments to decide it was harmless. John’s roommate was desperate to add a keyboard to their band, he wouldn’t run his mouth off about things he heard and couldn’t prove. For all Roger knew, he was a good person and wouldn’t run his mouth off even with no ulterior motive.

His hands still shook when he tuned the radio, the idea of someone knowing about his secret but having no stake, no benefit in keeping it to himself was a foreign one. But it wasn’t as if some rugby player with a neck thicker than his head found out. It was _John’s friend_.

~~~

Roger worked on his fills, moving them up down and around the kit while Brian strummed his guitar aimlessly and Freddie glared at the two of them, no doubt getting a headache from the mixture of their music. But they had nothing better to do, not until John showed up. And though it was a big inconvenience having their bassist absent, there was a sense of accomplishment in Roger, as if he’d worn him out so thoroughly he’d slept through his alarm. It kept a grin on his face as the time passed.

“I know—I’m so sorry,” said John as he barreled through the door. Roger paused his lazy drumming, quieted his cymbals and toms, and looked up to grin at John. His bass guitar case slung uncomfortably around his shoulder, his hair a real mess, his clothes a bit out of sorts too, and his hands shaking around the half eaten sausage roll and sheet music in his hand.

“You alright?” said Freddie with a light hearted laugh.

“Just—just fine,” assured John. He set down his guitar, started unclasping it, shoved the second half of the roll in his mouth and practically swallowed it whole to save time. “I ran into trouble this morning—time really got away from me, I’m sorry.”

“What sort of trouble,” said Freddie.

“Oh—long story.”

Freddie turned to Roger and Brian, waiting for an explanation as if either of them had it. Roger wanted to believe he had it, that John made it in late because he’d made it to bed late thanks to Roger. But he looked more stressed than that, more nervous than he ought to be just for showing up a bit late.

“But I’m ready to go, no warmups,” said John.

“Well,” Brian stammered, “well, I guess we ought to get right to it.”

“Suppose so,” said Freddie, all three eyeing the way John’s fingers trembled on his bass.

He played well, if Roger didn’t look up at him he’d never notice the way he shuffled and shook. If anything, Roger fell out of tempo just watching John somehow stay perfectly in time while seemingly struggling to get to each and every single note. His normal air was very rhythmic and natural, where now he was racing his own fingers to the notes. Though half of their practice time was eaten up by the wait for John, they all felt, after watching John’s tiring performance, that they’d done all they needed to for one day.

“Long as you’re not late like that to a show,” teased Freddie as he gathered up his shit.

“I know—I’m sorry,” began John, yet again.

“I’m kidding,” laughed Freddie. “It happens, and you still played like a champ, it’s all fine.”

“Still I,” John turned to Brian, a bit meeker, “I really am sorry.”

“What Freddie said,” said Brian with a clap on John’s shoulder.

“And you’re sure everything alright?” Freddie heaved his bag up onto his arm, adjusted his collar over it.

“If he doesn’t want to say.” Brian nudged Freddie.

“It’s—just an issue with my rent, that’s all, it’ll be sorted soon, just threw me for a loop this morning,” said John in as reassuring a tone as he could muster.

Roger, ducked in his drumkit, loosening the bass pedal, thought John sounded insincere. Thought that sounded like a lie. But when he peeked over his drums he saw John smiling, and Freddie promising they had an open couch if he needed it, and Brian promising his flat was cramped enough that the sight of it would bring John to tears. When Freddie reached for the door, when Brian tried to slip out, Roger yelled, “I guess I’ll put this drum kit away myself!”

“I guess you will,” said Freddie.

“I’ve got work,” said Brian, not even pretending to offer to stay as he hurried out.

“I’ll stay,” said John.

“Don’t make John stay, poor thing’s white as a sheet, he doesn’t need to be doing any heavy lifting,” said Freddie.

“And I do?” Roger struggled up to his feet.

“Yes,” said Freddie with a grin.

“I won’t help, I’ll just keep company,” laughed John.

“Perfect.”

Freddie hurried out, not keen on hearing any more complaints from Roger. The door swung closed and once it had Roger eyed John, eyed the way he fidgeted with the loose thread on his jacket, watched how shy he looked, like he was prepping to say something. Roger loosened the hihat, picked up a drum, and opened the storage closet to his left, waiting patiently for John to spit it out. He’d just barely positioned the floor tom at the back of the closet when he heard John clear his throat, and stammer a bit.

“Hey Rog,” began John.

“Yes, Deaky?” said Roger with a smirk.

“Did you see one of my roommates on your way out last night?” John stared at him, stuck in his spot across the room. Roger stared back, took a stride or two in his direction, slipped his hands in his back pockets.

“I did, I—well, he said he’d heard enough,” Roger shrugged. “I didn’t confirm anything, I just left...figured it wasn’t the end of the world.”

“Yeah,” John’s voice trailed off, his gaze moved from Roger to a spot in the middle distance, unfocused and thinking too hard.

“Why, what happened?”

“The two of them just…early this morning, started talking about it with me. Said it was y’know…the lot. ‘Odd’ ‘unnatural’ all that. They said it made them uncomfortable. They weren’t kicking me out per say, but…well I spent the whole morning phoning up old friend’s to see if I could stay somewhere else for awhile, I even packed—’s why I was so late.” He took a step towards Roger. An awkward, unfinished step.

“Deaky,” said Roger in as soothing a voice as he could. He stepped up and over the loose cords and equipment to get to him, put his hands on his shoulders and grinned at his worried face. “You look so scared, it’s alright.”

“It is?”

“They didn’t kick you out,” said Roger. “They could’ve said horrible evil things to you and they didn’t…did they?” John shook his head. “See? They might be a little…surprised, might not like hearing us,” added Roger with a laugh, “but this isn’t any worse than a disagreement about whose turn it is on the washing up.”

“But—but what if it is, Roger?” He reached anxiously up for Roger but gripped nothing, just pressed his shaking hand against his chest and let it fall. “They could technically report me, Rog, I’m not 21, it’s not legal for me yet.”

“Deaky, Deaky, breathe,” Roger ran his hands up John’s arms and back down again. He breathed in slow and made John follow his lead before he spoke again. “You’re in London now. It’s easier here. You roommates won’t throw you out on the street, and even if they did do you think I’d let you just fend for yourself?”

“I suppose not but…I just—I feel so sick to my stomach, Rog. I mean before I met you this was all just hypothetical,” John’s voice trembled, “but now it’s—it’s real and I’ve spent so much time imagining how horrible it would be if people found out, and now they have and—”

“And nothing,” interrupted Roger. “Nothing happened. Those guys are your friends, they’re not going to ruin your fucking life over this, it’s not the stone age and we don’t live up north.”

“That’s easy for you to say,” said John.

Roger scoffed. “ _How_ is this easy for me to say.”

“Well…” John’s face broke into a small grin as he realised what he’d said.

“Yeah,” Roger laughed, “we’re in the same boat. I promise you, there will be plenty of other times to panic, but this isn’t one of them.”

“God, you might be right,” John rested a hand on his cheek.

“Might be?” Roger laughed. “Your roommates are about as intimidating as a couple old ladies, John. You think you’re being threatened by two grans who asked you not to fuck so loud?”

“Alright!” said John with a croaking laugh. He took in a deep and uneven breath, “you’re right—it’s fine, I’m sorry I bothered you with this shit.”

“Do I look bothered?”

John laughed a deep shaking laugh and shook his head, Roger did the same thing, laughing with him and inching closer until he closed the gap with a kiss. Light and quick in case the doors suddenly flew open.

“Why don’t you come to mine,” said Roger. “You look like you need to unwind.”

~~~

John had been to Roger and Freddie’s a handful of times, always quick occasions. It occurred to Roger he’d never been inside his room, which felt strange considering just how much time Roger spent in John’s. Roger gave him the grand tour of Freddie’s tiny bedroom, followed by his own, somehow smaller, bedroom.

“What’s in here?” said John, kicking the box under Roger’s bed.

“Er,” Roger cracked his window, “comics.”

“Comics?” laughed John. He reached under, tugged the box out and tore the lid off. “Lots of comics. Roger, I’m disappointed, I thought you were cool.”

“Fuck off,” said Roger, trying not to laugh as he said it.

“It’s not even porn, it’s just sci-fi,” John sucked his teeth and pulled out two issues.

“It’s good stuff,” said Roger, a little more meek.

“Sure it is.” John made himself at home on Roger’s bed, kicked his shoes off, and thumbed through the two issues he’d plucked from Roger’s old moving box.

Roger rummaged through his sidetable for the joints Freddie was always stealing off him. He’d long since had to hide his actual stash in various places around the room while leaving a few decoys in his sidetable. He found the last one Freddie hadn’t stolen and patted his pockets for a lighter.

“Speechless huh?” said Roger, grinning at how enthralled John looked. He breathed the smoke deep into his lungs and sat right by John, pressed close against him.

“Not speechless, just trying to remember what happens in the issue before this one,” muttered John.

“You’ve read it?”

“Course I’ve read it,” laughed John.

“Then what’re you teasing me about?”

“You’re supposed to be the cool one, got to at least be cooler than me, Rog,” said John with a nudge to his side.

Roger rolled his eyes and put the joint between John’s lips. Rested his head on John’s shoulder and read the comic along with John. A few pages in, John asked for a refresher on the plot. After a lot of promising Roger that he wasn’t asking just to mock him some more, Roger gave it to him. And as they continued, Roger kept reminding him of old details that were important now, old details John remembered halfway through and repeated back to Roger.

“You more relaxed now?” asked Roger as he flicked the roach off his bed.

“Think so,” said John, leaning further into Roger. “Thanks for all this.”

“I wasn’t gonna let you go back ‘round your flat to pace for another few days,” laughed Roger.

“Still,” John turned to him, “I’m not your boyfriend, you didn’t _have_ to talk me down.”

Strange how that stung. Strange how those words didn’t feel like the relief they normally did. He stammered on a few starts of sentences, on a few attempts to casually brush off his unusually wounded ego and even wounded feelings. It all fell short and ended in a tense laugh, an awkward laugh that was more of a backpedal on his unclear thoughts that he knew he and John could blame on the hash.

“When does Freddie get back?” whispered John.

“Always up for it aren’t you?” teased Roger as his hand slipped around John’s waist. “We’ve got until six,” he muttered against John’s neck. Then pressed a kiss there, then took his time working up John’s jaw to meet his lips.

They were always a little sloppier after smoking awhile, after a few drinks together, but it wasn’t the usual, frustrating sloppiness with a stranger. It was comfortable, more playful. Not worried in the least about being robbed, or being left unsatisfied like he’d be with a pub stranger. Totally at ease on his side with John, slotting their thighs together, taking their time.

Roger locked his door, climbed back in bed with John, rolling over and under him, dazed and hazy from the smoke still lingering in his lungs, in the air.

Roger reached in his side table for his lube. It occurred to him he’d never used it on someone else before. Might’ve mentioned that to John, might’ve hinted he’d like to switch, but that could wait until John didn’t look so devoid of confidence in his own touches, his own movements.

“God,” said John, choking on his moans while Roger’s fingers curled as deep in him as he could go.

“Deaky,” whispered Roger. “We’re home alone, be as loud as you like.”

John looked up with such a desperate look of pleasure. “Your neighbours?”

“Fuck ‘em. Scream,” Roger punctuated the thought by shoving his fingers deeper, curling them with more urgency, and pulling out to do it again. John arched up and got two fistfuls of Roger’s sheets. It felt like no matter how many times Roger worked him open, it always felt like the first with John. Just as good, just as electric and exciting as that first night in Roger’s van as strangers.

John stifled some more moans in Roger’s pillow before giving up and whining, groaning deep and guttural when Roger sank into him. And no matter how many times he felt John’s body tight on his cock, it always felt brand new. He pushed his hips deep into him, listened to the way he whined, and held back his own moans. Shutting them both up to an extent with his tongue against John’s.

And when he pulled away and got a good look of the hopeless, desperate expression on John’s face he felt his stomach turn with, something. Some unidentified emotion that he’d attribute to the hash later.

“Fuck, Deaky,” breath Roger.

“Don’t come yet,” begged John as he rolled his hips up to meet Roger’s again.

“I’m not close,” laughed Roger, grinning as he pressed a kiss to John’s sweaty temple. “Fuck, I was just—I was just thinking we ought to do something.”

“What kind of something?” said John through huffs and puffs. His legs crossed behind Roger, pulled him in deeper.

“We ought to…” Roger paused his own thoughts to groan when the drag of John against his cock overwhelmed him just enough. “We ought to do something, together. Go out and do something.”

“What d’you mean?” John opened his eyes, let a tired grin spread across his face.

“I mean—” Roger rolled his hips again, snapped them into John.

“Wait—Fuck—Fuck, do that again,” screamed John. Roger did. And John screamed again. And again and again. Roger sped up, left bruises in John’s hips as he pulled him back in, and stroked John’s cock while John gripped the sheets, gripped the mattress, chucked Roger’s pillow across the room and screamed like Roger only got to hear when they went to the back of his van. It didn’t take long for him to come, and after that it took Roger even less.

Roger fucked him through their aftershocks, ran his fingers over the mix of come on John’s stomach, licked up some of it, wiped some of it away with his shirt and kissed John’s sweaty forehead before he pulled out.

“That one was good,” sighed John, Roger could hear the exhaustion in his voice. “Fuck, I love it like that.”

“Such a slag,” teased Roger.

“You made me one,” snapped John.

“You were born a slag, I’m just enabling you,” said Roger.

“Maybe.” John reached between them, ran his fingers across his belly, and brought them up to his lips. Roger watched him suck his fingers clean through heavy eyes. “Can’t tell who’s who.” He looked up Roger with bright eyes. “Think you’d let me taste just you?”

“You…” Roger’s voice caught, “you asking to suck me off?”

“Aren’t you supposed to be teaching me?” said John innocently.

“Right,” sighed Roger. Just teaching. That’s all it was. Practice runs for the real thing, whenever that came. “Well, I’d never say no to head.”

“Even if it’s bad?” laughed John.

“It won’t be bad.” Roger rolled off him, onto his side. He could still feel the heat radiating off John’s body.

“It’ll be bad,” mumbled John. Roger didn’t bother correcting him. He kissed John’s shoulder, shimmied around in his curled up sheets until he got comfortable, and let John sink in closer to him once he’s stopped wriggling so much. “What were you saying we ought to do? Sorry I interrupted.”

“Oh that,” Roger rubbed his face. It’d been a much easier thought to communicate when they were both a little higher and a lot more distracted. “I—I was just—y’know we don’t spend much time together outside of _practicing_. I thought we might just…go out.” He held his breath, internally kicked himself for being too overbearing, for being too forward with his words.

“Like a date?” John sat up a bit, his face bright red and his eyes darting between Roger’s.

“Er—well—” began Roger at the start of his backpedalling.

“No—No, I was, I was just—teasing. I didn’t think you meant an actual date,” said John, laughing awkwardly and waving his hands. “Don’t worry, I’m—I know what this is.”

“Right,” said Roger. He tried hard not to sound like John had just twisted a knife in his gut but that’s certainly how it felt.

“So—so what did you want to do?”

“I hand’t thought that far…Movie?” Roger stopped short on offering dinner.

“We ought to invite Freddie and Brian,” added John. His hand shook when he tucked his hair behind his ear. “I see the most of you, might be fun to see more of them.”

“Yeah it might,” said Roger. Why had he fucking asked. He wasn’t sure he wanted John past their fun together, wasn’t sure of any of his feelings, so why would he ask him to ‘do something’. So fucking childish. ‘Do you want to do something’, the words rung in his head loud an obtrusive as he and John recovered their clothes from the various places they’d been thrown around the room. ‘Do you want to do something’, he sounded like his sixteen year old self, back when he was still nervous around women. Maybe if John had been equally off his game it wouldn’t be so humiliating. If John hadn’t laughed it off and invited two other people it wouldn’t feel like such a crushing blow. A blow to something he’d done so spur of the moment, so sloppy and unsure. It just wasn’t like him.

“Rog?” said John, waving his hands in front of Roger’s eyes. “You still in there?”

“Er—sorry, just coming down,” said Roger, as if he hadn’t come down ages ago, it was one fucking joint.

“What film did you want to see?”

“Oh—hadn’t considered—Freddie always has opinions on shit like that, we’ll clear it with him first,” said Roger, effectively passing the buck.

As if on cue, Roger heard the horrible squeak of their front door.

“Roger!” screamed Freddie. “You can’t fucking leave this unlocked, I know we don’t own anything good but honestly! Roger! Are you home!”

“In here!” called Roger, holding off on opening the door until John buckled his belt. Once he had, he threw the door open and hoped his face wasn’t red when he grinned at Freddie. “Sorry I left it— _but_ I was home so no harm no foul.”

“Hiya,” said John, wriggling by Roger to say hello to Freddie.

“Oh—what’re you doing here?” said Freddie. “What’re you both doing locked up in Roger’s bedroom.”

“Smoking, that’s all,” said Roger a little too quickly.

“Getting your mind off the whole rent shite?” said Freddie.

“God—I clear forgot about that actually,” said John with a hand on his forehead and a breathy laugh.

“Must’ve been strong hash,” said Freddie, eyeing them both.

“It was,” said John with another flimsy laugh before he added, “I really should be off, keep losing track of time—still so much shit to do.”

“Well don’t let us keep you,” said Freddie with one of his more fake grins. Roger’d become particular adept at spotting any fake emotion from him after so much time together. John scooped up his jacket and his keys and thanked Roger for taking his mind off things for awhile before hurrying out and down their steps. Freddie let their door swing closed with a loud slam. “That was odd.”

“Was it?” said Roger. “Seemed fine to me.”

“His shirt was on inside out,” said Freddie. “I find that odd.”

“He did take it off when he got hot,” said Roger, scrambling for an excuse, “don’t think he’s quite used to smoking if I’m honest.”

“Hm.” Freddie eyed him only for a second before he fumbled around with the keys in his hand, got lost in thought. Thought Roger didn’t want him dwelling on. Freddie was perceptive which wasn’t often a problem since he was never all too curious about the things he picked up on. But when curiosity did strike him, there wasn’t much point in hiding from him. For a long while his trips to the pub, trips to John’s had been a delicate balance of boring presentation and flimsy lies.

“We ought to go see a film,” said Roger, anything to interrupt his thinking.

“What? Now?”

“All four of us, team bonding,” said Roger with a grin. “Deaky thought it was a good idea.”

“While he was high I’m sure,” teased Freddie. “But sure—pay for my ticket and we can go.”

“Fuck that, I’m making Brian pay, he’s the only one with a job.”

“I think I can stand a few weeks of him nagging us to become secretaries for that,” said Freddie with a wink. He scrounged around for the paper to comb through the listings for the next few days and Roger relaxed into the couch by his side once he was sure Freddie’s mind had drifted far away from the truth.

~~~

“But no snacks!” shouted Brian behind him at Roger, Freddie, and John. Roger had neglected to tell him he’d be paying for his and Freddie’s tickets until they made it up to the booth and Freddie could pressure him with his big eyes.

“You can share my popcorn,” said John.

“Don’t enable them,” groaned Brian as he slid the money across the counter and pulled up three tickets in return.

“It’s not enabling, it’s kindness,” said Freddie.

“Sharing popcorn won’t hurt,” John pushed the theater door open for them.

“It’s starts with sharing popcorn and soon they’re loitering outside your flat for grocery money like urchins in a Dickens novel,” said Brian as he handed Roger and Freddie their tickets.

“They haven’t actually done that have they?”

“It was once!” said Freddie. “And it was mostly a joke.”

“Mostly?” John laughed.

“Well when he wouldn’t give it to us it became the principle of the thing,” added Roger with a nudge to Brian’s side.

“You know if you two just got real jobs then maybe you wouldn’t drain my empty bank account in your free time,” said Brian with a barely hidden grin.

“But where’s the fun in that?” said Freddie with a pinch to Brian’s cheek. “C’mon Brian and I’ll save seats while you two buy popcorn and if you’re feeling generous something chocolatey for me.”

“Don’t buy him anything,” groaned Brian.

“ _This_ is why you’re coming with me,” said Freddie with an aggressive jerk to Brian’s sleeve as he hauled him off in the direction of the theater.

“Poor Brian,” sighed John once they were out of earshot.

“Poor Brian?” Roger scoffed. “He’s earned the bullying, I promise you.”

“You can go save a seat, I really don’t need help holding popcorn.”

“Embarrassed to be seen with me, eh?” said Roger, only half joking. He took it personally when John didn’t take the front seat Freddie offered him when they picked him up. He took it personally when John walked next to Brian instead of him, and he took it personally now when John offered to let him go sit down. It didn’t make sense, he knew that. But he also knew Freddie and Brian weren’t supposed to be there. This was _meant_ to be a night for the two of them, and each little bit of distance John wedged between them reminded Roger that John wasn’t looking for time alone with him.

“Of course not,” John laughed, “I just don’t want you to miss anything.”

“I think I’ll live if I miss a few adverts for Coke,” said Roger. John grinned and pushed his shoulder against Roger, light and playful, but pulled away quick. Neither he nor Roger were comfortable getting seen too close somewhere so public.

“Should I get Freddie’s chocolates?” said John, only one customer in front of them.

“No,” said Roger. He shoved his hands deep in his pockets and pulled out the only change he had left from the week of selling their clothes and paying their bills. “I’ll get it for him, it’s the gentlemanly thing to do.”

“My hero,” said John through a laugh.

Roger pressed his shoulder up close to John’s while they ordered, and pulled away when the cashier eyed them like she could tell something was off. He slammed his change on the counter and added up as he slid each coin across before taking the cheapest bar of chocolate he could find. John, a proper adult, counted out his money before it hit the counter.

“Theater…two it says,” John eyed his ticket, a ways from the concessions counter.

“I swear they went into three,” said Roger. He broke off a bit of Freddie’s candy bar. It tasted about as good as he could expect from something so cheap.

“There’s only four theaters in here, I think we’ll find them eventually,” said John through a mouthful of popcorn.

“Have it _your way_ ,” said Roger with fake exasperation as he took a step towards theater two. John laughed and caught up to him, spilling his popcorn here and there as he went. The adverts had started and the glow from the screen guided Roger and John off to the far left where Brian and Freddie had saved them the last two seats from the aisle.

The whispered apologies as they crossed everyone’s field of view and hurried to their seats, Roger by Brian, John on the edge, and Freddie reaching over all of them to swipe the candy bar from Roger before he polished it off.

“Next time we ought to bring our own,” said Brian.

“It tastes better when you buy it here,” said Freddie with his teeth stuck in slightly stale chocolate bar.

“It’s gourmet here, Brian,” said Roger as he stole a few kernels of over buttered popcorn.

They barely had time to keep on teasing Brian before the production team’s logo blared on screen and the film followed suit. It was some western, some cowboy something Freddie and Brian had been itching to see since they saw the title in the papers a week before. Roger liked anything with a solid action, solid aesthetics, and a solid score. He didn’t mind the cheesy dialogue or the rather tired plot as long as the fights were exciting and the costumes didn’t look as fake as they were.

“You look like him,” whispered John ten or twenty minutes in.

“No I don’t,” said Roger. The man on screen was a thousand times more rugged, more hardened. A real salt of the earth cowboy with hair no longer than his ears. “Not nearly that manly.”

“I don’t know,” said John, even quieter. “He reminds me of you.”

“Reminds you of me how?” Roger watched John cross his legs, watched him shiver.

“I dunno,” mumbled John. He fiddled with his hair and tensed up just a bit while he watched the screen. “Just so powerful.”

“Oh?” said Roger, still just a whisper in John’s ear. A little too close, a little too familiar. John looked at him with a blush just barely visible in the dim light of the movie. His eyes were wide, a little flustered, he checked over his shoulder as if someone might see his expression from there.

“Sh!” said Freddie down the line.

Roger tried not to laugh at his shushing and sank back into his seat. And rested his arm on the armrest between him and John. He fiddled with the popcorn limply before dipping his hand down, reaching for John’s and finding his fingertips in the darkness of a campfire scene. Too dark to tell if John minded, too dark to tell if he was pulling away, so Roger pressed on, threaded his fingers through John’s, and breathed a deep sigh of relief when John squeezed his hand.

There was a lot he could extrapolate from that. A lot he could try and understand about where John’s head was in terms of the two of them. He could spend the whole film wondering why John wouldn’t stand too close to him, wouldn’t go to the damn theater alone with him, but would whisper to him some needy compliment. He could’ve spent the night doing that. But it was more fun to spend it focusing on how soft John’s skin felt when his thumb ran across the back of his hand, how comforting it felt when John did the same.

Someone on their row stood and shimmied down the line to hurry out to the restroom. They ripped their hands apart, and when the man came back, when the darkness of the theater covered them once again, John kept his hand buried in the popcorn, far away from Roger.

~~~

“That chocolate made my stomach hurt,” groaned Freddie once they four made it out to the night air.

“You shouldn’t’ve eaten it in one go like that,” said Brian. “You had the whole movie to nibble on it and you practically swallowed it whole as the credits came on.”

“Live and learn,” said Freddie, confidently holding his middle.

“Please don’t get food poisoning from a candy bar,” said Roger with a grin. “That’s not rock ’n’ roll at all.”

“It’s not food poisoning,” spat Freddie. “It’s just more sugar than I’ve had all month crammed into one bar.”

“Once we’re rich I’ll make sure you get enough sugar to withstand the evil wiles of a relatively small candy bar,” said Roger with a hand on his shoulder.

“Be nice to me or I’ll get sick in your van,” said Freddie through a deep breath.

“On that note, I might take the train home,” said Brian.

“Don’t be a baby,” said Freddie, though his pale skin left them all without confidence.

Roger drove with the passenger window down for Freddie to hang out of like a dog. He’d occasionally insist he was fine but he never popped his head back in so Roger kept driving slow and even for him.

“I hate riding back here,” said Brian.

Roger laughed at the glimpse he had of him in the rear mirror, all balled up, hugging his legs. “What’s so bad about it.”

“I don’t like staring that bottle of lube in the eye,” said Brian. “I _know_ you don’t wash this carpet.”

“You sound jealous,” teased Roger. Brian replied with a roll of his eyes and a few mutters of ‘fuck off’ under his breath.

“Leave Roger and his van alone, I much prefer he fuck them in here than at my flat, where I fucking live,” said Freddie out the window.

“Who’s to say I’m not getting it in the van and at home,” said Roger with a laugh. He turned down Brian’s street.

“Deaky, if you’re gonna be in a band with Roger you have to get used to this kind of degenerate behaviour,” said Brian with laugh. Roger looked back, just for a moment, to see John bright red again. Roger couldn’t blame him and was glad to have Brian jump out with a quick goodnight and plea for Roger to get his interior disinfected.

“You alright?” said Roger once they hit the first light from Brian’s flat.

“It’s doing horrible things to me, Roger. _Horrible things_.” Freddie groaned and leaned further still out of the van.

“It was one bar of milk chocolate,” said Roger.

“ _Milk_ chocolate?” said Freddie.

“Oh,” said Roger.

“I see, I see, you hate me, is that it?” said Freddie, a little more comfortable settling back inside the van with a diagnosis on the table. “You poisoned me?”

“I forgot,” said Roger with a laugh.

“Forgot what?” said John from the back.

“I’m lactose intolerant,” spat Freddie. “Roger wants me dead so he fed me milk chocolate knowing I couldn’t read the label in the theater.”

“Yes, Fred. I bought milk chocolate so you would shit your pants in the theater, unfortunately you ate it too far into the movie. My evil plan’s been thwarted.”

“Take me home!” said Freddie. “I’ll be locking you out tonight.”

“As is your right,” said Roger with a laugh. “Deaks, d’you mind if I drop him off first.”

“With the sounds his stomach’s making, I’d kill you if you didn’t,” said John.

Freddie held his stomach the remaining five or ten minutes back to his and Roger’s flat. When he got out he told John if he wanted an apology for the extended drive home he could direct his complaints to Roger who, as far as Freddie was concerned, did this on purpose. John called a ‘goodnight’ after him as he switched from the back carriage of the van to the passenger seat.

“I can’t believe you poisoned him,” said John as they pulled off the curb. “Just to be alone with me.”

“I _did not_ poison him,” said Roger with a grin. “Don’t go repeating that as a joke or he’ll have me arrested for a laugh.” Roger eased the brakes on at the light and reached aimlessly for the radio knob. “But I’m glad to,” he cleared his throat, “I _am_ glad to have time with you. A bit anyway.”

“I’m glad too,” said John, more sheepish than usual. Roger wanted to ask why the hell he’d invited Freddie and Brian out with them if he was so glad to get time alone together but he knew he wouldn’t get an answer he liked so he let the silence circulate for a few breaths in and out.

“Are your roommates doing any better?” said Roger, getting desperate for conversation.

“They do their best when they don’t see you.” He laughed a little awkwardly and adjusted the airvents, just to have something to do with his hands.

“Do you,” after so long doing it Roger couldn’t pin down why it felt harder to ask for it each time, “do you think they’ll see me tonight?”

“Smooth,” said John with a grin.

“Just curious, either way it was a good night,” said Roger. He didn’t sound like himself, not to his own ears anyway.

“I was thinking,” John snaked his hand onto the gearshift to let his fingertips run over Roger’s hand, “we could have a go in here.”

_Why am I still a secret_ , screamed Roger’s mind. But he’d never ask him, far too afraid of the answer. “Did that cowboy flick really do that much for you?” teased Roger.

“More you than the movie,” said John as his hand slipped off Roger’s.

He pulled over in the first alley he saw, slim enough that Roger’s doors didn’t have space to open, dark enough that their eyes had to adjust once they climbed in the back together. They were both more desperate than they thought, both more needy for each other once they knew they’d have it. Roger popped a button or two on John’s shirt and John nearly busted Roger’s zipper trying to yank it down.

Laid on his side, his thigh slotted between John’s, his arms wrapped around him, his lips pressed soft against John’s while his tongue moved deeper, he felt that deep tugging need in the pit of his stomach again. That feeling that so good he could’ve just laid their and cried, that feeling he couldn’t quite name, couldn’t quite remember having before.

“John,” whispered Roger.

“Uh huh?” breathed John.

“Can I do something new?” said Roger.

“What is it,” said John against his lips.

“Let’s switch,” Roger’s lips ghosted the words across John’s cheek.

“I…” squeaked John. Roger pulled back, looked into his eyes, filled to the brim with concern, and brushed his hair back, tucked it behind his ear. “I won’t be good at that.”

“I’ll do the work,” said Roger. “I just want you to have me.”

John said nothing, just looked at Roger with an expression he couldn’t name. He mumbled, stammered over words he didn’t have, trembled in Roger’s touch, and gave up trying to speak. Shut them both up with a sloppy kiss and a desperate grip around Roger’s waist.

Roger smiled against his lips and rolled his hips up into him, rocked against him held onto him. John promised he wouldn’t be good, so Roger didn’t ask him to try it, not just yet, he knew John wouldn’t know how to do it to someone else, and kissed all his apologies and laments about inferiority away. He worked himself open how he’d do when he was alone. John swore under his breath watching him, Roger panted against his shoulder until he was sure he could take it. And when he was, he rolled on top of John, bracketed his hips with his knees, and made sure John was slick enough before he slowly sank down onto him.

“Is it big enough?” mumbled John. A question Roger knew he probably would’ve kept to himself if he hadn’t been so dazed. Roger just laughed and nodded. It’d been awhile since he’d had it like this, John’s cock might not have been the best to wean him back into things.

He breathed in sharp once he’d taken John to the hilt and looked down at his bright red face, his embarrassed eyes and felt his eager hips squirming, bucking up into him by fractions of centimeters.

“Fuck,” croaked Roger, his voice catching in his throat. He flattened his palms just outside of John’s shoulders, and rolled his hips once. And watched with a pleased smile the way John’s eyes rolled back. “Like it?”

He only whined in response. Whined and gripped Roger’s thighs, his arse, his hips. He bucked up into him aimlessly and out of rhythm with Roger, but neither could be bothered to care about John’s inexperience, not right then. No amount of experience or inexperience in the world could’ve change how incredible it felt right then. And when John hit that spot inside him, Roger swore, and let out a sobbing moan as his hips moved back down on John automatically.

“I can’t go much longer,” choked John.

Roger panted, nodded, and breathed, “that’s okay.”

John stroked Roger’s cock with all the strength and surety left in him, but in the end he came first. With a piercing cry and a sweet convulsion of his hips up into Roger. He kept his hand moving for Roger’s sake, and once he caught his breath his grip tightened and his wrist twisted, and he shook every time Roger rolled his hips back and forth against John’s body until eventually he came. The sound he made was closer to sorrow than pleasure in nature, and his thighs shook so much, John held onto them to steady him.

He caught his breath through choked breaths in and fell to John’s side. Bare and exposed with the carpet of his van pressing into his skin. John wasted no time in rolling over to him, draping a leg across his body, pressing a sleepy, lazy kiss to his shoulder. Normally the in the moments after, they talked. Made each other laugh while they got dressed and moved on. But right then they were both content to lay in each other’s arms in the quiet silence of the dark night around them.

“We can’t stay here all night,” said Roger after what he wished were a few hours resting against John, feeling the warmth ebb between them effortlessly. He reached between them and brushed his thumb over John’s cheek.

“Can’t we?” said John tiredly.

Roger said nothing, but leant forward to capture him in a kiss. More searing and desperate than he normally was after sex. More eager for something he couldn’t identify. He was totally satisfied but still craving something, anything from John. So he kissed him hard, and pulled him close, and whined into his mouth and whined again when John did the same.

But eventually that unidentifiable need between them, cracked under their exhaustion, and they made each other laugh while they worked in the small space of Roger’s van to get dressed again. Roger apologised for the buttons he broke, and John apologised for the scratches down Roger’s thighs. They’d made a mess of each other.

“D’you know how to get there from here?” said John once Roger successfully backed out of the alley without scraping the sides of his van.

“Think so,” said Roger.

The radio did most of the talking on the rest of the drive home. Roger didn’t feel he had anything to say. His whole body still tensed and swirled with that unsatisfied need to just be with John, need that couldn’t make sense, he was sitting right there with him.

“I had fun,” said John when they pulled up to his flat. “The movie, the…it was all really...really…”

“Yeah,” said Roger, about as eloquent as John.

“Might be fun to go out again, all of us as friends,” said John.

Roger’s mind lingered on the word ‘friends’ in silence. Wondering why John kept hammering that home, wondering why he cared that he was. He added nothing more than, “we should.”

“Well I…I’ll see you,” said John. Shy and formal in a way that had Roger cocking his head.

“I’ll see you,” said Roger. He leaned forward for him, and John was quick to meet him, to kiss him deep and quick. He mumbled a goodnight and hopped out of the van, shut his door with care before hurrying up to his flat.

~~~

Their quickies were never quick, but this one had added almost an hour to his commute back and forth. He wasn’t keen on coming up with an excuse for Freddie. Not with his head all in pieces. So he crept in, silent as the grave. Hung his carkeys up, then his jacket, even took his boots off to more quietly negotiate the creaky floorboards he and Freddie never bothered to fix.

“Trying to sneak in?” said Freddie from their shitty kitchen. He looked a lot like how Roger remembered his mother would look when he stayed out too late and got up to no good.

“Didn’t want to wake you,” said Roger.

“You’re being strange,” said Freddie. “And you been strange for some time now.”

“The fuck are you talking about,” said Roger in as flippant a tone as he could muster.

Freddie set his empty mug in the sink and crossed his arms over his chest. “John’s flat is a fifteen minute drive from here. It’s taken you almost an hour and a half to get there and back.”

“We got to chatting,” said Roger with a casual shrug. “What exactly are you accusing me of?”

“I’m not accusing you of anything,” said Freddie. “I’m just…letting you know that if you had something you’d like to tell me, I’m all ears.”

Roger laughed, hoping to get a similar smile on Freddie’s face, to lighten up the serious tone. But Freddie stayed stoic and patient. “Whatever you think I’m doing, I’m not.”

“You don’t know what I think,” said Freddie with a cheeky grin that Roger could tell was fake.

“Why don’t you tell me then?” scoffed Roger. He hoped if he treated this as a joke Freddie might take his word on it. But the beads of sweat would give him away if it didn’t end quick.

“I’m…I’m thinking what anyone would think, if they came home to you to locked up in your room with clothes on inside out, or if it took you, say, an extra hour to get back from John’s flat” Freddie looked at him perfectly expressionless but entirely expectant.

“It’s nothing like that,” said Roger with fake disgust. “Jesus, Fred. We were in my room to smoke, we shut the door—”

“But opened the window?” said Freddie.

“That was—after, after it—we were high reading old comics,” stammered Roger. “Sometimes we get to chatting on the ride home and he invites me up for tea before I go. We’re _just friends_ ,” those words stung him in a way he hadn’t expected. “You don’t have to turn this into some—some— _scandal_.”

“I didn’t say scandal,” said Freddie. “If there’s nothing you want to tell me, then let’s go to bed.”

“There’s nothing to tell!” spat Roger, getting a little more irritated than he would’ve liked.

Freddie took a step towards him and put a hand on his shoulder. “Okay.”

“Okay,” repeated Roger, trying to sound confident.

“Let’s get some sleep, after you poisoned me I could really use it,” said Freddie.

Roger let out a breath he didn’t know he’d been holding when Freddie passed by him to get to his bedroom. “I didn’t poison you,” he added a bit too late.

“We’ll see what the judge thinks, Taylor,” said Freddie with fake indignation followed by a quiet, “goodnight,” before he slipped into his bedroom.

Roger called a goodnight back to him and stayed frozen in the hall until he saw Freddie’s light go out from under his door. He stumbled into his own room, tore his clothes off and fumbled for the lights before falling into bed. His heart beating twice what it should’ve. Over Freddie, over John. Two things he couldn’t quite understand, two things that right there in the deafening silence of his bedroom, felt entirely overwhelming.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Let's all just pretend I updated this in a timely manner haha!!! Sorry for the delay, lots of things going around, new fic idea as well that I ended up posting, lots to do so again sorry for the wait! But it's here now and thank you everyone who has commented before and please continue to do so if you continue to enjoy it <33333

Roger could keep time, could keep the groove going in his sleep. That skill had come to free him up to do more impressive fills, throw in a couple tricks both in the music and twirling his sticks. Having the beat securely in his head _and_ his body gave him the time to be a showman behind the kit. It also gave him time to stare at the way John moved. Kept his head down usually, staring at his strings, plucking them hard, leaning into it with his hips, moving rhythmically against the body of his guitar. It made Roger uncharacteristically eager for the show to end.

A certain type of excited relief flooded him when Freddie announced the last song, when they worked their way through it and Roger beat his bass drum to a pulp for the final crashing finale. And normally he’d linger on stage, wave to the crowd while Freddie blew kisses, but not then. He hopped off stage in an instant, following right behind John, Brian a few steps behind him, all four headed for the dressing room.

Roger fell into the sunken couch that was crammed into a corner, and tapped his foot, bounced his leg, attempting to quell that horribly insatiable desire in the pit of his stomach as he tried, very pointedly, to not watch John. Or the way he wiped off his makeup, the way he stripped off the glittery clothes Freddie made him wear on stage, the way he stretched and cracked his back, the way he whined just a bit while he did it.

“The crowd seemed to like it,” said Brian pointlessly. Roger couldn’t bring himself to care about the show, not right then anyway.

“I heard someone scream John’s name,” said Freddie, “how’d you like that?” he added with a wink.

Roger turned to see John at the mirror with Freddie, shrugging and grinning like a shy teenager. Which, technically, he was.

“It’s nice I suppose,” said John noncommittally.

“You’ve got to use this power to get laid,” said Freddie with his attention back on his own reflection. “Isn’t that right Rog?”

Roger flinched and could only smirk back at Freddie in the mirror before his gaze drifted back to John. But John didn’t meet his eyes for more than a second before he was nervously focused on fiddling with the hem of his shirt, the button on his trouser pocket.

“Who’s loading drums?” said Freddie.

“Who d’you think?” said Roger. He groaned and stood up. “We really need a roadie, it looks so unprofessional to have me out there doing it.”

“We’ll put out adverts in papers _tomorrow_ ,” said Freddie. “Swear on my life, darling.”

“Thank you _Freddie_ ,” spat Roger in Brian’s direction.

“So dramatic, Rog, honestly, just play a foot long xylophone if you care about the clean up so much,” said Brian.

“Big words from a man who carts his guitar around in my fucking van,” said Roger. Brian’s only attempt at an apology was a sigh and a shake of his head.

“I can help you load up,” said John.

“Thank you, Deaky,” said Roger, “it’s nice to know _at least you and Freddie appreciate me_.”

“Oh fuck off,” said Brian with a quiet laugh.

Roger stormed out as over-dramatically as he could and waited in the hall for John to catch up. The crowd had dissipated enough to where it didn’t look horribly silly for the two of them to be dismantling the kit like they were. Didn’t look incredibly cool either though. Once the big pieces, bass drum, ride cymbal, the floor toms, were loaded up, they went back for the rack toms, the hats, the stool, all the things they could carry easily and more conveniently fit in the van.

“Last of it?” said Roger as he shifted his rack tom over to fit John’s guitar a bit better.

“Last of it,” confirmed John as he handed him the pair of hats and shifted next to him between the open doors of the van. Roger positioned the hats as tight as he could knowing Brian would be complaining about cargo space the whole ride home if he didn’t. “You played really well tonight.”

“You think?” said Roger with a cheeky grin, turning his attention on John.

“I do,” said John with a shy smile.

“I think,” Roger reached for John’s shirt, tugged him closer, “I think you looked incredible up there.” Roger’s hand snaked under the fabric of his shirt, across the small of his back.

“Oh,” squeaked John.

“Oh,” said Roger. He took a step forward, slipped his thigh between John’s, “d’you think you’ll be free later? For me?”

“You,” John’s face blushed so brilliantly, “you want me?”

Roger scoffed. “How’s that in question? Of course I do, you were practically teasing me all night.”

“Yes,” John shivered, “yes I’m free—I’m free now if you like.”

Roger laughed and pulled his thigh away from John and checked over both their shoulders just to double check no concert goer had seen something they’d have to explain later on.

“Over this way,” mumbled Roger as he slammed the doors of his van and hurried around the far side. Roger’d parked against a wall, nice and dark, nice and secluded. John followed with a blushing face and a cheeky grin. Roger reached for his wrist, pulled him closer, pinned him against the metal of his van and took a sharp breath in before he kissed him. “More fun like this,” said Roger against his lips. John only hummed in response.

“We won’t do it here,” said John, breaking away only briefly, “will we?”

“I’m more of a gentleman than that,” said Roger as he tugged open John’s belt. “But I know you don’t last long with a blowjob.”

“Right here?” said John with a shaking laugh.

“No one’s lookin’,” said Roger as he reached down to unbutton and unzip John’s trousers.

“You’re sure?” breathed John.

“Positive,” whispered Roger against his lips. He felt John reach for his hip, and hold on loosely as Roger moved his tongue against John’s, moved his hand against his cock.

There was a distinct shuffle of feet grinding in the grit of the carpark, it echoed off the wall behind them and startled Roger into thinking someone was there, near at least. But when a few more seconds passed without a repeat of the noise he paused, and listened again, certain he’d heard it.

“What is it?” said John, bucking up into his hand.

“I thought I heard—” began Roger.

“No, Roger’s got the keys!” called Freddie, somewhere on the opposite side of the van.

“Fuck,” spat John, frantic and panicked as he worked his trousers back on, zipped, buttoned and buckled. Roger could hear his feet shuffling closer and stood in front of John as best he could knowing Freddie would be peeking his head around soon and John’s shaking hands weren’t going to be threading his belt in time.

“There you two are,” said Freddie. “Hiding or something?” Freddie wasn’t one for blushing, he couldn’t do it maybe, or maybe he never got embarrassed. But there was something a little shy in the way he eyed Roger and avoided eyeing John.

“Dropped change, can’t find it,” said Roger.

“Oh, here it is,” said John. Roger checked over his shoulder and watched John pick up nothing, hold it up for barely a second for Freddie to ‘see’, then deposited that non existent coin in his pocket. “Alright, well, we can go.”

“Is Brian ready?” Roger stepped out from the dark side of his van and felt John trailing behind. There was Brian, moving just beyond a walk but just before a jog to catch up to the three of them waiting by the van.

“I’m ready!” called Brian.

“God—Don’t run like that, you look like a poof!” screamed Freddie with a giggle. “C’mon, I could really use a drink.”

“A drink?” said John, a little sheepish behind Roger.

“Just one or two darling, we all know you love the stuff,” said Freddie. He reached out to ruffle John’s hair. “We’ve got to celebrate, haven’t we!”

Freddie hurried to nab the passenger’s seat before John or Brian and slammed the door, honked the horn, urged them all to get the lead out.

“You alright with after the pub?” said Roger in as quiet a voice as he could. “Still want to?”

“I—yes, of course—if you do, if you still want to,” said John.

“If I do?” said Roger with a cocked head.

“Alright!” Brian caught up to them finally and made no apologies as he maneuvered between the two of them to open the back of the van and crawl in, dragging both his and John’s guitars in behind him rather gracelessly. John hurried to help him before he jabbed an elbow through a drumhead or let one of the guitars slide right out. Roger helped none but slammed the doors shut when no more feet poked out.

~~~

‘If you do’.

If _you_ do.

The words echoed in Roger’s head as he drew little patterns on the wood varnish with the condensation pooled up by his pint glass. He sat in the booth with Freddie’s leg pressed to his own and let Brian and Freddie drown the conversation out with their talk of the next show or the next idea. Things, normally, Roger would want his voice heard on, but his focus had been stolen.

If you do.

What was that? Pity?’ Oh I’ll fuck you if you really want me to, Rog’. ‘If you’re really so hard up for it I’ll fuck you again’.

Maybe John had been having his way left and right about town and Roger was the fool for thinking otherwise, for thinking John might’ve felt anything for him. Anything past the vague sense of gratitude he had for finally unloading his virginity. Maybe once Roger broke that seal, there was no stopping his appetite, maybe he was pathetic for crawling back to John night after night when John was getting it anywhere and everywhere else.

“Rog, you look like you want to fucking die,” said Brian.

“Hm?” Roger perked up. “Sorry—sleepy I guess.”

“I’m a bit sleepy too,” said John with a quick glance at Roger. As if feigning sleep was Roger’s ploy to get them out of the pub and into John’s bedroom before the night ended. It was a slight, a very slight, comfort to know that even if he was coming off desperate or somehow overbearing, John was still willing to participate in a lie if it meant they could have another night together. He, at least, wanted him enough to lie about being sleepy.

“You can’t be sleepy,” said Freddie, he jerked his chin in the direction of the bar, “that woman’s been staring at _you_ all night. Go say hello or I’ll be forced to do it for you.”

“Oh,” John checked over his shoulder quickly, trying to spot the woman without being obvious. Roger hadn’t seen her until Freddie said something. But she was looking at John, and she wasn’t hideous. Tall, brunette, boring but pretty. “That’s—that’s nice but I’m not really er—”

“It’s your round anyway,” Brian nudged him, “one hello won’t kill you.”

I don’t think so,” said John with an awkward laugh. Suddenly so shy as if he wasn’t going from bed to bed, as if he didn’t have the charisma to get around the way he did.

“Oh fuck’s sake, she’ll do all the talking, just go order us some drinks,” said Roger.

“You want me to?” said John with a cocked head.

“Yes we do!” said Freddie on Roger’s behalf.

“Well—fine then,” said John.

Roger couldn’t hear the idle chitchat of Freddie and Brian as soon as John got to the bar, as soon as that woman put a hand on his arm and laughed at something he’d said.

This was why he went to the pub and found a new man every night. This was why he used fake names and never once got into his hobbies or interests, God forbid he go near his backstory. He kept himself and his encounters anonymous because they could only end like this. One sided, watching a woman steal what he thought was his.

“Honestly, Rog, are you ill?” Freddie put a hand to his forehead. Roger swatted it off.

“I’m fine,” said Roger. “Too far in my own head.”

“That’s usually my job,” said Brian. “C’mon, lighten up.”

“Fine, fine,” said Roger, shaking off the ill will, saving it to chew on later, “what were we all talking about?”

“I was thinking I might change my name,” said Freddie.

“Again?” said Roger with a cocked head.

“Not ‘Freddie’. I was thinking of changing the Bulsara,” said Freddie.

“I think it adds a certain flair,” said Brian.

“Well I think it reminds everyone I’m not lily white and it’s a bugger of a name,” said Freddie, knocking back a swig of his drink.

“You don’t need to be lily white in music,” offered Roger lazily.

“You have to sound it though. Jimi Hendrix’s certainly isn’t but you’d never guess it off the name,” Freddie sighed. “We all know if I stayed Farouk no one would’ve given a shit. Now that they do, why not change my surname too.”

“To what?” Roger looked at him intently. “Bulsara sounds very artful, it’ll be tough to beat.”

“I was thinking, _Mercury_ ,” said Freddie.

“Like the planet?” laughed Brian.

“Like the god,” corrected Freddie.

“Humble,” teased Roger.

Freddie was dead set on it it felt. It prompted him to offer up some flashier names for him and Brian. Roger Taylor, Brian May, both very boring names, very common. Brian’s argument was that the Beatles, Led Zeppelin, all their members had regular old names. Three Johns just in those two bands. But Freddie wouldn’t hear it, he was already mentally filling out their forms for the courthouse appearance.

John never did bring back to the table with the pints he was sent out to get, but he did come back. And when Freddie teased him for not offering to take the girl home he just blushed, said it was too early on, something akin to that anyway. Roger didn’t have the stomach to listen to closely.

“Hey er,” John pulled Roger’s sleeve, held at the back of the group as the four of them made their way out to the carpark, “how’ll you get back to mine?”

“You still want me over?” said Roger.

“Well—yes—don’t you want to come? Over?” added John with a laugh.

“Course I do,” said Roger without thinking. It might’ve been a good chance to demonstrate to John he could be just as unfeeling and indifferent, but he’d never pass up a chance for a night with him. “I don’t know, I’ll think of something. Maybe forget to drive by yours or—I’ll think of something on the way.”

“Please do,” said John, giddiness lacing his words as he hurried to catch up to Brian and Freddie.

John shuffled up to the van with unsure feet and hidden smiles as Roger unlocked it. He jumped in the back with Brian and balled himself up where he fit with no complaints. Roger slammed the back doors shut and wondered on his trip back to the driver’s seat how, or if, he could ask John about that woman. What they talked about, what he saw in her. What John saw in Roger.

~~~

“Oh, darling,” said Freddie, “you missed John’s turn.”

“Oh—no, I didn’t. I left something at his awhile back, I’m just riding back to get it,” said Roger, eyes locked on the road so Freddie couldn’t decode his poorly thought-out lie.

“What’d you leave?” said Freddie.

“I’m teaching him a bit on bass,” said John, “I said I’d lend him my old one but he keeps forgetting.”

“Bass?” said Freddie. “You know piano, guitar, and drums, must you really show us all up with bass?”

“Anything to one-up Brian,” said Roger with a wink.

“I didn’t know you were giving away free lessons dear, I would’ve taken you up on them,” said Freddie, twisted around to look at John in the backseat. “I say that but I’ve really got no interest in bass, it’s not loud enough for my taste.”

“That’s why I love it,” said John with a quiet laugh.

Roger could feel Freddie’s eyes on him all the way back to their flat. His goodbye to both of them lingered awkwardly as he looked Roger up and down a few times before hurrying up to their front door. He waved to them once he got it unlocked and Roger peeled off the curb a few seconds later.

The race to John’s began as soon as Roger rounded the corner. He sped down the street and came to crashing brakes at any red light he hit. Though he did just run a few. He couldn’t help it, not with the few glimpses of John palming himself in the back stuck in his head, the soft sounds of his desperation echoing in the van. If it weren’t for the drums lacing the edges of hold of the van, he would’ve pulled over and taken him a few blocks back.

When he came to a screeching halt and parked by John’s building, it was all they could do not to have each other right there on the sidewalk. And in those excited moments, chasing each other up the stairs, and grabbed each other’s hips on the way, Roger was sure John wanted him. Not self consiously guessing that John probably liked his company, but _sure_ , very certain, that John wanted him more than anyone else. Even if that feeling only lasted until he came.

He paid no mind to his roommates, barely gave them a hello before hurrying to his room. Slamming the door, locking it and nearly tripping over his trousers while he tried step out of them _and_ tug his shirt off. Roger kept him upright and helped with his top, pulled it off him and threw it somewhere to his left. He kissed him with all the pent up need and desire he had, pushed him onto his bed, straddled his hips, ground down against his barely clothed cock, felt that intense heat and hardness push back.

“Please,” whined John, his legs spread and wrapped around Roger’s hips.

Roger didn’t need to be told twice. He was frantic in the way he rucked his trousers and pants down far enough to free his cock, shaky and rough in the way his fingers stretched John open. Quicker than usual, more desperate for it than usual. But just as satisfying when Roger finally sank into him. John breathed a quiet moan, arched off his bed and clutched the sheets.

“Still good?” muttered Roger.

“Perfect,” sighed John.

He kept as quiet as he could for his roommates’s sake, but he was still whimpering, begging for more with each pump of Roger’s cock. Roger wasn’t in much better shape, mumbling John’s name and biting into his shoulder to quiet himself if he had to. It overwhelmed him almost. The feeling, the pit in his stomach, the tingling in fingertips and cheeks that made him dizzier and dizzier each time he rolled his hips and felt John buck up into him.

“John, I, I,” began Roger.

“Rog,” muttered John. He reached for Roger’s hand, resting on his hip, digging his nails in occasionally, and guided it up, across his chest, shoulders, and up to his neck.

“Fuck,” said Roger with a shaking groan as he let his fingers wrap loosely around John’s neck. He squeezed a bit, too cautious to really try, and relished in the way John’s eyes rolled back. He let go, squeezed again, always quick, never confident enough to hold it though John begged him to. Begged him to hold it, to go longer. _He trusts me_ , thought Roger. Trust between them was implied, sure. They both had rather big secrets that they entrusted with the other. But this was more than that. John trusted him with his air, with his life. That had to mean something, that had to mean he felt something, that had to mean Roger was safe to admit he felt something too. “John I—I want you.”

“You have me,” said John, pinching Roger’s hand, urging him to squeeze again. So Roger did, only for a moment, a little longer than before. “All of me.”

“Thank God,” said Roger through a sobbing moan, both pleasure and relief flooding him.

“I’m close,” sighed John. The words had barely left his lips before he came across his chest. Roger rutted into him for a second or two more before he added to the mess with a moan quieted in the crook of John’s neck.

He took a moment, caught his breath, sat up just enough to look at John. To brush the sweaty strands of hair from his face. To grin down at the way John grinned up at him. Roger pulled out, fell to his side, and stared up at John’s ceiling.

“You came so much,” said John, running his fingers through the mess painted on his chest. He licked what he could off his fingers with his eyes shut and breaths deep, as if savouring each drop. If Roger weren’t so worn out he might’ve gone another round with him just for the sight of that. Roger helped him along, ran his tongue over the soft expanse of his stomach and up to his chest until the mess was all gone except for the traces on their tongues they could still taste on each other.

With John’s roommates, with Freddie, they both knew Roger had to go and neither said all too much when he started pulling his trousers back up and searching for his shirt and his left shoe. But even with his exit feeling more abrupt then either of them would’ve liked, Roger felt more secure in knowing that even if they hadn’t said it outright, John wanted him. Said Roger had _all_ of him. It swelled Roger’s chest, stroked his ego, and reassured him that even though John was soft spoken, it wasn’t a one-sided desire for more.

“Oh—Rog, that’s my jacket,” said John from the bed.

“Is it?” Roger stuffed his hands in the pockets, looking for his keys. His fingertips didn’t find the soft leather of his keychain, just a slip of paper.

“Yes it is, look it’s far to long on you, you’re so short,” teased John.

“I’m _a few_ inches shorter,” said Roger as he pulled the slip of paper out, “what’s this?”

“Oh—that’s the number, from the girl at the bar,” said John.

“Oh,” said Roger through gritted teeth. “Want me to bin it?” he asked hopefully.

“Bin it? No—she was very sweet,” said John. “Leave it on my desk.”

Roger held the paper tight in his grip for a moment or two before sliding the paper on his desk as gently as he could. “Don’t lose it.”

“Okay,” said John with a cocked head.

“Well…goodnight,” said Roger.

“Thanks for coming by,” said John with a tense tone. Words designed to alleviate the tension but the tightness in his jaw still lending to it.

Roger left without another word and merely held up a hand in response to one of John’s roommates offering a garbled goodbye at his back.

~~~

So he could have him, all of him. But just for those moments. Outside of that they were bandmates and friends but nothing more and John was fine, felt no shame in calling up some woman he met and flirted with directly in front of Roger all night. Roger rode home in silence, gritting his teeth the whole way.

He had no right to get mad. John wasn’t obligated to feel anything for him, and Roger wasn’t obligated to sleep with him. If it hurt him so bad he could call it off. He knew someone more mature would probably do just that. Call it off before their own hurt feelings got in the way of their friendship, their professional career.

But why didn’t John want him. He gave him everything he had and he was still saving numbers from strangers. He bit his thumbnail and waited for the final light to turn green before he pulled into his parking space and sighed deep when he turned the engine off. But he wouldn’t wallow, couldn’t wallow, couldn’t bear to chip away at his uncaring, promiscuous image with a hidden cry in his car ride home. He opened his door, slid out of the van, and took him and his heavy feet up the steps to his flat.

The unlocked door told him Freddie was still up. He trudged inside and shouted his most enthusiastic ‘hello’ through the flat. He heard a response from Freddie in the kitchen, a muttering about making tea. He didn’t offer, but as Roger threw his keys and his wallet down, he asked for a cup for himself.

“Hm,” said Freddie once Roger rounded into the kitchen.

“There’s enough tea for two isn’t there?” said Roger.

“There is.” Freddie eyed him up and down. “So do you love him or is this just one of your flings?”

“Excuse me?” said Roger with a sputtering laugh that, given his emotional state, was damn convincing. “Love who?”

“John,” said Freddie like it was obvious.

“Why would you—I’m not—there’s nothing odd going on with us two, Fred, I think you’re just a little hard up for gossip,” said Roger with an eye roll. He sat down and hoped Freddie didn’t notice the way his legs shook when he did.

“We don’t have to talk about it if you don’t want to,” said Freddie, turning his back and slipping two teabags into two similar mugs for them each.

“There’s nothing to talk about,” said Roger weakly as Freddie set both mugs down on the table and sat across from him.

“If you don’t want to talk—”

“What the fuck—Fred, it’s not fucking funny anymore, nothing’s happening,” spat Roger, too defensive and too frustrated, but the best he could offer with his bogged down mood.

“It’s safe with me,” said Freddie quietly.

“There’s nothing—”

“Roger, you went over there an hour ago to ‘pick up’ a bass guitar, that you didn’t bring home, and you’re wearing his jacket,” said Freddie.

“Oh—Well—that’s the guitar’s in the van—and I must’ve grabbed his jacket by mistake, it’s nothing sordid—”

“He gave you a hickey,” said Freddie quietly.

“What?” Roger’s hand whipped up to his neck, covering the only spot he could remember John nipping at for too long.

“Oh, Rog,” Freddie sighed, grinning still. “There’s no hickey dear. But obviously you think there might’ve been one.”

“No—no, that’s—you’re catching me out,” said Roger.

“Okay, then let’s go downstairs and you can show me the guitar you brought home.”

Roger thought about sending him downstairs and maybe acting surprised when only his drums were in the van. Though now that he thought about it, the two of them had been too preoccupied with each other to get John’s guitar out, that would probably be more damning than anything. “Well—I would but it’s cold out—”

“Rog, I saw you two earlier behind the van,” said Freddie. “Let’s stop with this whole nonsense, it’s out in the open now.”

“Ah,” said Roger. Just as well, he couldn’t have thought up a very good lie for why Freddie absolutely shouldn’t look in the van, but why the bass guitar he was meant to pick up from John’s was _definitely_ in there. “That’s embarrassing,” he muttered behind an awkward smile.

“Oh please, you looked a proper professional back there,” said Freddie with a wink.

“Did I?” Roger winced at the thought of Freddie watching what he’d done. Not watching, glimpsing. He was sure Freddie wouldn’t have ogled very long.

“Darling, don’t look so terrified,” Freddie laughed, “secret’s safe with me and all that. Not as if you didn’t know I have the same secret that needs keeping.”

“Well,” Roger shrugged, smirked, “I didn’t know. Not for sure. I mean Liberace’s about as flamboyant as you so.”

“I think we’ll come to find one day that he’s _exactly_ as flamboyant as me,” said Freddie with a giggle. “But go on, Rog, why’ve you looked so down since the pub, what’s gone wrong?”

“I don’t know,” Roger shrugged. “I—This is sort of a long story.”

“I’ve got big ears,” said Freddie.

So Roger settled in. Told Freddie all about those ‘women’ he would see for one night only, told him how that was a cover the pub he frequented, told him how he met John there, how they used fake names, how petrified they’d both been to see each other at the audition. How Roger stuck around, kept finding him, kept wanting him. How he’d tried for a date, that became a group outing, how he tried to give something of himself to John but John had barely noticed the gesture. How even then, even that night, he thought John might’ve meant what he said.

“But then he asked me to make sure not to lose the number,” said Roger. “I don’t know, I just left.”

“That the end of it?” said Freddie. Roger nodded. He hadn’t interrupted Roger’s long rambling a single time, just took it all in as it came. Looked thoughtful as he did. Freddie wasn’t one to offer up his opinion without thinking it through carefully. “Well—firstly, well done disguising that you’d already fucked. I thought you were hungover the day of the audition not seeing a ghost from your past.”

“Wasn’t easy,” said Roger with a grin.

“Second off…” Freddie sat back in his chair and thought, carefully about his next words. “Just—do you love him?”

Roger knew the answer but instead said, “I’m—I’m fond of him, I’d like to be with him I guess.”

“Hm.” Roger couldn’t tell if Freddie bought that answer but either way he pretended he had. “Well I’ll say this. If he really has no interest in you, you _will_ find someone else.”

“That’s—that doesn’t make me feel better,” said Roger with a melancholy laugh.

“It’s true though,” said Freddie, full of nonchalance. “But that’s worst-case. Rog, you took the poor man’s virginity, he must feel something.”

“He was willing to lose it to a stranger in a bar, it doesn’t mean shit.”

“Well—I don’t think him saving this number means shit either, it’s probably for a laugh considering _he’s fucking you_. Don’t you think a man interested in both sides would’ve just slept with a woman instead of protecting his virginity for a stranger at a pub?”

That made sense but, “he’s so shy.”

“Outgoing enough to find you.”

Roger fiddled with the tag on the tea bag. “Maybe I just gave him the boost he needed to go ‘round London fucking anyone with a pulse.”

“I doubt that,” said Freddie with a grin. “Rog, be honest, have you ever told him how you feel and what you want? Out loud? With words?”

“Well—not exactly…” It felt like admission enough in the few moments he tried. The flaccid attempt at a real date, the quick and intense night in Roger’s van when Roger rode him, feeling like an exposed nerve the entire time. Even that very night, clumsily telling him he wanted him with desperation in each syllable. It felt so clear cut and obvious in those moments, like he was bearing his soul. But maybe…

“Remember when you told me you liked Southern Comfort and a full month later when I bought a different brand of whiskey you asked why I was mad at you?” said Freddie.

“I recall,” said Roger as dignified as he could.

“Maybe you’re not as clear as you think you are sometimes, especially when it counts, and maybe before you come moping through our flat you ought to _ask_ if that’s even the case,” said Freddie. He sipped the last of his tea.

“And if I’m right, if he’s only in it for the practice and the sex?” said Roger, downing the last of his tea too.

“Well then I’ll buy you Southern Comfort,” said Freddie with a smirk. Roger smiled back weakly. “Alright, it’s bedtime, try not to let it fester, darling.”

“It’s not festering,” said Roger tiredly. He let their empty mugs clatter into the sink. But it was. The needling thought that he’d done the one thing he swore never to do to himself wouldn’t let go. Not while he showered, not while he fiddled with his wet hair, not while he laid in bed. He kept things anonymous for a reason, he never repeated dates for a reason. The reason being, it hurt him more than he cared to admit. Just thinking about John with that woman, with some mystery man, it tore him up in ways he’d never stayed around long enough to deal with.

He’d have to ask, have to chat with him about it, with words not actions. If he could ever get the courage up, if he could ever convince himself that his assumptions weren’t the truth. Not yet anyway.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hallo!! The second to last chapter's here!! It's a little more grumpy than the others but y'know this was the only chapter in my original outline that had much turbulence so I decided to amp it up just a bit more haha! Hope you all enjoy it, and please comment if you do <3

“Can I bring Chrissie?” said Brian, meek as ever with his guitar in his lap.

“The fuck?” laughed Roger. “Why would we invite you to a party and force you to leave Chrissie behind?”

“I guess it wasn’t so much an ‘am I allowed to bring her’, as it was a ‘should I bring her’.” Brian leant back in his chair. “Last time you two hosted something, those art friends of yours tried to cut her hair.”

“It’s far too long and does absolutely nothing for her,” said Freddie with a shrug. “They were doing her a favour.”

Roger hid a laugh as he fumbled his way out of his seat behind the drums, brushing by his cymbals and letting them ring on his way around the kit.

“Tell Chrissie to curl it or something and they’ll leave her be,” said Roger as he stretched his aching back.

“Can I bring someone too?” said John. Roger stumbled over his own feet but caught himself.

“Er—who might that be?” said Freddie with a shaking voice.

“One of your roommates?” offered Roger as he wrung his hands around his drumsticks.

“Just a friend,” said John casually.

“A friend or _a friend_ ,” said Brian with an elbow in John’s side.

“A friend,” said John with a stifled laugh.

And while Roger wanted to believe John had some friend from school he wanted around to keep him company amongst Freddie’s more eclectic guests, part of him was sure it was, “that woman from the pub? Is—is that who?”

“Er,” John heaved his guitar case off the floor, “yes, actually.”

“ _That_ kind of friend,” teased Brian.

“You—you’re sure she’d like to come?” said Freddie hopelessly.

“Of course she would,” said Roger. “Go on, let him bring his new _‘friend’_.”

“I don’t have to—” began John.

“Sure you do,” said Roger, clapping his shoulder a little too rough. “I’m—I’m gonna warm up the van, I’ll be out in the lot, Fred.”

“Okay, dear,” said Freddie, his voice getting muffled when Roger hurried out the door.

A friend. Sure. Sure she was a fucking friend, just like he and John were ‘friends’. And he knew he had no right to get upset, he knew the jealousy coursing through him was unwarranted. He and John made it clear their dynamic was friendly, was a means to an end, and not something beyond that. But Roger hadn’t expected to be the one to fuck it up, to confuse his own feelings to get them all tied up with John who didn’t deserve it.

He barely made it out onto the street when he heard Freddie’s voice calling, panting after him, heard the heels of his over-the-top boots clacking down the hall. Roger held the door for Freddie and waited for him to come to a sliding stop just before he rammed into Roger.

“You didn’t have to run,” said Roger with a grin. “I would’ve waited.”

“More dramatic this way,” said Freddie through laboured breaths. He passed through the door, Roger let it go and walked with him down the steps. “Sorry about—”

“Don’t be, I knew what I was in for,” said Roger. “Got no right to be surprised, do I?”

“You don’t have to be surprised but you can be upset,” said Freddie with a mirthless laugh. “And—who knows, maybe she is just a friend. I’m not entirely convinced he’s interested in women.”

“Didn’t you have a phase like that?” said Roger. “I know I did.”

“Well, my phase of going for women never had any overlap. Once I tried men I never went back.”

“The same for me I suppose,” shrugged Roger. “Maybe he’s just doing it out of order, double checking that he doesn’t like women?”

“If that’s the case, then what’s there to be so glum about?” Freddie nudged Roger’s shoulder with his own.

“Because he’s trying,” said Roger with a bit more force and anxiety in his words. “He _wants_ to find someone and even if he’s looking at the wrong gender, he’s not looking at me.”

Freddie, mercifully, stayed quiet for the rest of their walk over to Roger’s van in the cramped carpark. Roger didn’t want reassurance or promises that by some miracle John was seeing this woman in a friendly capacity. It wasn’t the case and there was no use in pretending it was. No use in pretending it would all work out in his favour. What he needed was Freddie’s silent presence, and the radio quietly droning on their drive home to accept what he knew was true.

~~~

Roger’s hosting abilities tended to pale in comparison to Freddie’s. Normally they split the workload and bounced around chatting to the people who were too quiet to get a conversation going themselves. But that night Roger felt like one of those wallflowers they often regretted inviting, had no energy to go around pulling other people out of their shells when he wanted nothing more than to crawl into his own. He had more whiskey than he wanted and nothing else to help soak it up, he didn’t think he could take real food with the way his nerves turned his stomach.

Brian arrived ages ago with Chrissie on his arm, and Roger expected John to be close behind. And when he wasn’t, Roger got to thinking, got to wondering if maybe the two of them had blown the party off to spend the night at John’s. Maybe they were late because they weren’t ever coming. His jaw clenched at the idea of John inviting her to his room. Of John having someone else, anyone else, share the warm, quiet intimacy of his undersized bedroom. It felt like betrayal, though he knew that feeling wasn’t fair.

“They’ll be here soon, Rog,” said Freddie under his breath. Roger hadn’t noticed him sidling up, thoughts and eyes focused entirely on the door, waiting for it swing open by John’s hand. “If you’re this out of it before he’s even got here, maybe it’s best you just—”

“I’ll perk up,” said Roger, his monotone voice giving away how insincere his words were.

“I’m fine to have you and your long face sulking around but I don’t want you just sitting, gawking at the two of them and getting worse and worse,” Freddie squeezed Roger’s wrist for some kind of comfort.

“That won’t happen,” said Roger as reassuringly as he could.

“Well…” began Freddie, totally unconvinced, “normally I’d kill you if you fucked off to your room, but I’ll make an exception if tonight you’d rather lock yourself up.”

“Thanks, Fred,” said Roger with a laugh that was only partially genuine.

With nothing left to say, Freddie meandered around, saying hello to the people he’d missed walking in and offering them drinks, never any food to go with it, they couldn’t afford all that.

Roger stayed with his back pressed to the wallpaper and said quick hellos to anyone who wandered within reach of him, but he never sought it out. Never stopped staring at the front door until finally, after another eternity, John walked through. The woman from the bar held his hand, trailed in behind and nudged the door shut with her foot.

John waved to Freddie who came bounding over, kissing both their cheeks, offering them both something to drink. The woman turned it all down, John opted for whiskey. Something about that stung in a way he hadn’t expected it to. Before Roger knew him John drank bourbon and knew next to nothing about whiskey. Roger got him started on it one night out with the band when the bourbon was too expensive for their tastes. After that, John kept some Southern Comfort on his desk and after particularly intense nights they’d share a mug of it lying together in John’s sweat-soaked sheets.

But now he was offering that woman sips off his drink. She declined them all but John still offered.

“Rog!” said John. His bright smile almost attacking. He shuffled through the few other people to get to Roger’s side, the woman close behind. “Didn’t see you.”

“Oh,” said Roger, coldly.

“Er—this is Ronnie,” said John.

“Nice to meet you,” said Roger before gulping down the last of his drink.

“You alright?” said John with a nervous tone.

“Golden,” said Roger, hissing through the burn of the whiskey. “Ronnie, did Freddie already offer you a drink?”

“Oh—yes, but I don’t—” began Ronnie.

“I’ll go speed him up,” said Roger, ignoring the tail end of her sentence. He was clumsy and a little blunt when he pushed through them but he’d worry about that later. For right then he was headed towards the kitchen, towards the whiskey. He topped up his cup and wondered if he ought to just leave. He’d have no fun, he’d make it impossible for John to have fun, what was the point in him staying.

He thought he might retreat to his bedroom or go out, take a walk in the cold air, a cigarette as his only comfort while he circled his own block for as long as he could bear it. He thought about it, but after promising Freddie he’d perk up, he figured ditching their own flat halfway through wouldn’t really prove his point.

So he lingered. On the edges of conversations and groups of people, a drink in his hand constantly being refilled and replenished in hopes that somewhere at the bottom of the bottle was tipping point, was the level of drunkenness that would let him smile and laugh and be genuine about it. But with each little lift that gulps of whiskey gave him, the sight, the sound of John and Ronnie brought him down a few more pegs, worsened his mood until it felt like work to uncap the bottle. Always at eachother’s hips, talking and laughing with each other in the corners of the room, only once or twice daring to join in with anyone else. How could they be so close, so friendly, so touchy with each other in such a short time. A week, two weeks at most they’d known each other and they were talking, chatting, laughing like it’d been years. Roger was so certain only he and John had that sort of connection. But maybe that was just his nature, maybe Roger had never been anything too special.

“Darling you look ill,” said Freddie, a little tipsy but not nearly as gone as Roger.

“I feel ill,” said Roger with a hiccup. “Look at him—he and that—that bitch, that—”

“Oh—no, hold on, not out here—” said Freddie with a panicked laugh. He took Roger by the wrist, tugged him down the hall. Roger could only barely keep his balance up and was relieved when Freddie dragged him into his own room, relieved when he could flop onto his bed and not worry about keeping himself upright. “You gonna be sick?”

“No,” said Roger as he rolled onto his back, his legs hanging off his bed sloppily.

“You’re sure?”

“Sure,” said Roger with a nod. He swallowed thickly, watched his ceiling spin, and added, “he’s a prick.”

“A prick?” said Freddie with a muted laugh.

“He—I—why the fuck did he bring her, Fred—I mean what the fuck is that?” said Roger, his voice growing thin.

“I’m sorry,” Freddie sighed and bent down to tug Roger’s shoes off for him.

“I hate him,” said Roger.

“No you don’t,” said Freddie, tugging his other shoe off.

“I do,” said Roger. He wrapped his arms around his middle, felt his eyelids getting heavy, gripped the hem of his jacket a little tighter. “Why doesn’t he love me?”

“Oh Rog,” Freddie sighed. Roger kept his eyes half-lidded, staring up at the ceiling, but he felt his mattress dip when Freddie sat by his thigh. He offered Roger no more words of comfort, just let a hand rest on his knee, let the other reach up and card through his tangled hair. Roger preferred it like that, preferred just knowing Freddie was there rather than sitting and listening to limp platitudes and unhelpful reassurances that the future would feel better.

“ ‘m falling asleep,” mumbled Roger with Freddie’s fingers twisting up a lock of his hair.

“Good, you need it,” said Freddie.

The whiskey, the exhaustion, carried him through the tedious process of getting his jacket off with Freddie’s help, getting under his blanket, stretching out and curling up as Freddie switched his light off and promised him he wouldn’t let anyone disturb him for the rest of the night.

~~~

A crash in the kitchen woke him. They didn’t own anything of real value, it was hard to even fake concern for whatever must’ve just shattered on the tile. His throat felt dry, his body felt achy and tired, and his chest felt heavy. The ceiling still spun, but must less than it had earlier. All that alone made him dread the idea of opening his eyes, but the lingering voices in the living room told him he still had guests, made him stay on the edge of sleeping and waking wondering if he ought to just go back out and play host and try and enjoy himself. Wondered if lying in his bed and sleeping off his whiskey to avoid thinking of John would actually make him feel any better. It took much of his energy but he rolled over, opened his eyes, and worked hard to decipher the time on his alarm clock. Only two. He hadn’t been sleeping long, which explained his spinning head and his numb fingertips.

He sat up, rubbed his tingling face, and swallowed. His dry, scratchy throat pained him and had him weighing the pros and cons of getting up to get a cup of water. The physical toll it would take versus the aching in his throat, longing for some form of hydration after a night of drinking his way through his emotions. He pulled his covers back, put his feet on the floor, and paused to collect his energy again. Physical and mental. He’d have the face the lingering guests with at least a wave and a grin. God forbid someone try and actually speak to him.

“Rog?” A knock on his door startled him, but he was too tipsy and too worn to jump up when the door opened. “There you are.” John’s head peeked in, his smile reaching up to his eyes. “You alright?” He took a step inside, closed the door behind him.

“What’re you doing?” said Roger, his throat dry and his words slurred.

“Looking for you,” said John with a shy wringing of his hands. Roger said nothing, but worked to keep his eyes in focus and on John as he took a step or two towards him, as he awkwardly sat by him on his creaky mattress. “Why’d you come in here?”

“What do you care?” scoffed Roger.

“I missed you out there,” said John with a quiet laugh. “I don’t do well at things like this, you’re usually right there with me. Making me seem normal.”

“Where’s your little…” Roger stopped his own biting tongue, “where’s Ronnie?”

“She went home,” said John.

“Without you?” said Roger with a smirk. “What’d you do to her?”

“Nothing,” said John quickly. “She drove here, she wanted to leave, so she did.”

“Why didn’t you?”

“I…thought—I know it’s not your cup of tea or…I don’t know, I thought I might stay here tonight,” said John. Roger huffed. He was in no mood to service John. He knew it must’ve taken him a few drinks to get the courage up just to ask but that wasn’t endearing enough to make him forget he’d spent all night choosing some brand new stranger over Roger.

“Stay here?” said Roger with a cough. “For free?”

“I—I guess not,” said John. He reached, slowly, for Roger’s knee.

Roger thought about swatting him off, throwing him out, screaming and yelling at him asking him how he couldn’t see all the damage he was doing. But when John, devoid of any confidence, inched closer to him, Roger did too. When John’s lips pressed to his own, he reached up, put a hand against his neck, pulled him in closer, and wished, so desperately, that this wasn’t all John wanted from him.

Roger pulled them down on his bed, wrapped his legs around John’s hips and hummed when John ground down against him. His grip across John’s back was loose and erratic, the way he tugged on his clothes was aimless and fruitless, like he’d forgot how to untuck a shirt, and he knew by the way John kept pulling away that his tongue was too intrusive and uncontrolled.

“I think you’re too drunk,” said John with a quiet laugh in the crook of Roger’s neck as he pulled away.

“So what?” spat Roger, his voice catching in his throat.

“So?” John scoffed with a cocked head. “I’m not doing this while you’re in and out of coherency.” He sat back on his heels, let Roger’s legs fall away from his hips and spread across the bed. “Rog?” he mumbled under his breath. Roger stared up at him, each muscle in his body tensing with frustration, with anger, with debilitating helplessness. The one thing John wanted him for, and he couldn’t even do that. “Maybe I ought to go.”

“You’re gonna go?” said Roger, biting his tongue. Thankful that he was on his back while his eyes welled. “Now that you can’t get your practice in for the night.”

“What—”

“That’s is all we fucking do,” said Roger, punctuating the thought with an obscene and shaky roll of his hips that made his mattress scream out. “And I can’t fucking do it right now so—yeah, I s’pose you might as well just fucking leave, I can’t fucking give you anything.”

“So you don’t want me to stay?” said John, one hand lazing on Roger’s thigh.

“Don’t do me any fucking favours,” said Roger, “just go the fuck home, go find Ronnie and go fucking home.”

“What the fuck’s the matter with you?” John was rough when he heaved Roger’s leg out of his way as he stood up.

“What the fuck would you care?!” spat Roger. “Fucking me’s not gonna teach you anything new anymore, John, there’s no fucking point to this anymore, stop fucking—” he hiccuped, “stop fucking acting like you need me to learn on, you’ve fucking learned. So why don’t you leave me the fuck alone?”

“What the fuck are you talking about?” said John, more worry in his voice.

“I’m talking about,” Roger sat up just enough to not feel as pathetic as he was, “about how—how—we only ever did this so you’d learn—well you fucking learned, you got what you—what you fucking needed so stop fucking bothering me!”

John stared at him for a moment, his teary eyes matching Roger’s, and let out a quiet sigh. “You’re a fucking arsehole,” said John in a quiet voice before storming out and slamming Roger’s door.

Good.

In his own head, his own drunken state, there was a victory in getting John to feel just as awful as he’d been feeling for weeks. It was a small victory and would ultimately be fleeting. John would mourn easy access to fun night while Roger’s stomach twisted up in knots of jealousy and hurt. But it was enough of a victory for him to fall asleep and stay asleep.

~~~

The next morning, Roger found Freddie’d left him a glass of water on his side table, and he hear him piddling about in the kitchen, could smell the coffee brewing, though he knew it had to be some point in the afternoon. He gulped down the water, and grumbled at his aching head, and wandered into the kitchen, said a quiet hello to Freddie who sat him down and demanded the full story.

Roger gave it to him with minimal emotion, trying not to really feel it just yet but getting the point across to Freddie that he’d told John to leave him alone, to fuck off, repeatedly. And it hadn’t been eloquent or kind or gentle, but it was genuine. He couldn’t bear another moment of sitting on the sidelines for him and getting nothing in return except aloofness and passive feelings. And Freddie did as he promised, never offered any advice or assurance that one day it wouldn’t hurt. He just refilled Roger’s coffee when he needed it and let him say whatever came to his mind.

“And you were clear?” said Freddie. “I mean really clear, you told him how you felt, how all that shit with Ronnie was making you feel?”

“I was drunk,” said Roger, his hands wrapped loosely around his mug of coffee, “I don’t remember all of it, but I…I’m sure, I got my point across clearly, I’m sure. It was muddled up with me telling him to fuck off and shouting but I know in the midst of that I told him flat out how I felt and…how awful I felt.” Roger ran his thumb across the hot ceramic of his mug.

“God—I’m sorry, Roger,” sighed Freddie. “I can’t believe you could bear your soul to him like that and he’d just storm out—if I had known why he was running out I would’ve stopped him and talked some sense into him.”

“Not worth it,” said Roger with a lazy, fleeting smile.

“We do have practice later,” said Freddie tiredly “I can move it to later—”

“No,” Roger groaned and rested his chin in his palm. “I’m gonna go, I can’t be that pathetic.”

“It’s not pathetic to need a break from seeing him,” said Freddie. “It was a rough night.

“That I created,” said Roger with a humourless laugh. “I started this as a no strings little agreement between two friends and then _I_ fucked it up with _my_ feelings. It’s not his fault.”

“Roger you can’t help your own feelings.”

“I can help my actions,” said Roger tiredly. “I could’ve just…behaved like an adult and been nice to Ronnie and—”

“And what? Let him fuck you?” said Freddie. “You’re allowed to have boundaries, to let him know he can’t have you both, that’s far from unreasonable.”

“I shouldn’t’ve yelled,” added Roger under his breath.

“I didn’t say you were perfect, but you did all you could do, you told him how you feel—and he should’ve responded with a little more compassion than fucking leaving you and bolting out our flat at two in the morning,” said Freddie. Roger shrugged in quiet agreement.“And if you’re not up to practicing today, I’ll cancel it and tell everyone I was too hungover.”

Roger thought about it, only for a brief moment before shaking his head. “I can go, I’ll go. I’ll go.”

“Then…I guess you ought to get dressed,” said Freddie with two quick claps of his hands.

Roger rolled his eyes at Freddie’s artificially cheery mood and dragged his feet back to his bedroom. His clothes from the night before were sweaty and clinging to his skin uncomfortably, peeling out of them was a relief. Putting on something cotton and breathable relaxed some of the tension in his shoulders.

He stepped into his trainers and met Freddie by the front door, twirling Roger’s keys around one finger and tapping his toe over-dramatically. Just to make Roger smile. And it worked for a moment. Freddie locked up and Roger led them down the steps to the street, to his van, and sighed deep and heavy when he got in, when Freddie started fiddling with the scanner, the volume not quite high enough to decipher any specific song.

He leant back into the headrest and tiredly maneuvered the van from it’s parking spot, down the street. Ages ago when Roger decided against vetoing John, he did so thinking he’d never get to a point where their past hindered the music. Where their nights together effected the way they played together, effected if they could play together. Back then it’d been so easy to say John was pretty, was fun, but wasn’t enough to ruin him. Driving down to their practice room, he wished he felt as sure as he had back then. Wished he knew that when he walked in for practice he’d be able to look John in the eye.

“I can still cancel,” said Freddie, about a block away from their destination.

“I don’t need to cancel, I’m a grown up,” said Roger with a smirk.

“If you say so,” said Freddie.

“I do.” Roger took the last turn too sharp, as if flipping his van would prove his point, and sped into his parking space fast enough to wreck, fast enough for Freddie to pump the phantom breaks on his side of the van. Roger paid it no mind and hardly waited for Freddie to catch up to him on their way in.

Through the echoey halls, he could hear Brian and John riffing together. Faint but still audible. Enough to make his stomach sink, as if part of him had been expecting John to stay home for this one. His hand went cold around the doorknob, but he forced the door open anyway, and smiled shallowly and reflexively at Brian and John sitting with their guitars in their laps, before he ducked his head and hurried behind the kit where he could let his drums take up all of his attention.

“Sorry we’re late,” said Freddie.

“You know generally ‘sorry’ implies you regret your actions,” said Brian.

“Then I’m sorry you two were on time,” said Freddie with a cheeky grin.

“Bit hungover there Rog?” said Brian with a laugh. Roger muttered some sort of confirmation, some noncommittal sound, and went back to pretending to tune his drums.

“I think we’re both a little hungover,” said Freddie with a wink, trying to draw all attention off Roger. He’d thank him for that later. “Is everyone ready?”

“We’ve been ready for nearly a half hour,” laughed John. Laughed. Like it was nothing, like nothing’d happened. And, Roger figured, on his end nothing really did happen. Roger cut him off from their quickies which he seemed upset about, but really what had he lost. No feelings were genuinely hurt. It was on Roger to start acting like nothing happened or it’d be his fault the whole messy business got dragged out so long between them.

Roger counted them off and did his best to focus though some of his grooves slipped up, most of his fills slowed down and shortened. He knew they all noticed and he hoped Brian assumed it was the hangover, hoped John did too. Hoped by the end of practice he’d have enough of a grip on himself to pretend the whiskey hit him too hard the night before but that his hurt feelings were so fleeting he could hardly remember them.

He worked on it during their performance with looks up to John. Where normally they’d be sharing faces, and watching eachother play to really click into place, that day each grin up at John felt like work, drained his energy and made him wish he’d just stayed home. But he kept doing it, kept smiling and making faces at John like nothing was wrong, and John did the same after awhile. Roger’s grooves didn’t improve, his fills stays slow and lifeless, but if anyone asked he’d say he was hungover, not sad, not wallowing, not emotionally exhausted, just hungover. Just had too much fun the night before.

“Stop it all, stop it,” grumbled Freddie. The last few minutes featured his voice almost entirely going out and nearly all of the highest notes missed entirely. “I can’t go on like this,” said Freddie.

“Are you coming down with something?” said Brian through a chuckle as he lifted his guitar over his head.

“Could be,” Freddie massaged his throat, “I fucking well hope not.”

“Maybe you didn’t get enough rest, or wore it out shouting all last night?” offered John as he clipped his guitar case shut.

“I wasn’t shouting,” said Freddie, not believing his own words so he kept them quiet. Roger stood, grabbed his sticks, stretched out his leg that’d gone numb during their practice and kept his gaze on his foot, kept it low and far out of John’s eye line.

“By the way,” Brian hoisted his case up, “I didn’t hear it but one of your more eclectic friends asked Chrissie if eye colour was real and if she would sell the shoes she was wearing. Honestly, I’ve got to stop coming to these things if you’re bringing such street performers.”

“Oh, they’re alright,” said Freddie with a dismissive wave of his hand. He started toward the door, Brian at his side. “They’re bohemian, that’s what it is, very earthy. Social mores don’t fit into their lifestyle.”

“I wish they fucking would, they’re impossible to speak to.” Brian shoved the door open and let Freddie slip under his arm to go through it. Roger stumbled over his feet, over his cymbal stand, trying to get closer in, to follow closer behind the two of them, to make sure he wasn’t left alone with John by mistake. And he nearly made it out alive.

“Rog—I think you dropped your lighter?” said John, rummaging around the drum kit. In the moment it took Roger to look back, to respond to his name being called, Brian had let the door swing shut behind him while he continued his chiding of Freddie for the crowds he ran with.

Roger hesitated, shifted from his heels to his toes, before taking steps towards him and swiping his lighter from John’s grip. “Thanks,” he mumbled, turning on his heel, hoping once again to escape without any big long chat.

“Wait, Rog,” John reached out for his sleeve and took a halfstep in his direction. “Last night—”

“Don’t worry about it,” said Roger before he’d even turned to meet John’s eyes. And once he had it was clear the conversation wasn’t going to end just there.

“I didn’t know this shit bothering you so much,” said John. “I—I didn’t mean to upset you.”

“You didn’t,” said Roger.

“Oh,” John cocked his head, “you were—you _seemed_ horribly upset with me.”

“I…I’m not,” Roger clenched his jaw, “It was my own fault, really. I mean what the fuck did I think would happen with this weird arrangement we’ve got. Shouldn’t’ve shouted at you for it, should’ve just finished my whiskey and gone to bed,” he added with an awkward laugh.

“But you meant what you said?” asked John, looking at him through his lashes, meek as ever.

“Not all of it,” said Roger awkwardly. No he hadn’t really wanted John to fuck off and leave him alone. But he had meant his feelings, had meant it when he lashed out about what being John’s casual side gig really felt like. He knew it wasn’t eloquent but from what he could remember it was clear and it was fair. “Just the main parts.”

“Okay,” John’s voice was flat and unreadable. “Well…I—I’m still okay with, with what we’ve got if you’re okay—”

“I think we should cut that off here,” Roger shrugged, trying to seem nonchalant while his heart pounded out of his chest. “It’s already so muddy and tricky, I don’t want it to get worse and hurt the band or—or our friendship even.” He wasn’t sure if he meant that, wasn’t sure if he could really handle just a friendship with John, but for the sake of argument he could.

“Oh,” John deflated. Roger clenched his jaw a little tighter, wondering where John got off being disappointed that Roger couldn’t toss him around because of his painful feelings. As if he had a hard time coming by it, as if he cared who gave it to him. “But we’re still friends?”

“Sure,” said Roger though his tone was forced.

“We should—we should do something,” said John. “Together, as friends.”

“Sure,” repeated Roger, noncommittal and eager to leave, to leave and decompress and work out the painful emotions weighing so heavy on his chest he could hardly breathe. “Some other time.”

“Okay,” John held his bass a bit closer to his hip, “some other time, then.”

Roger led the way out of the practice room, walking a step or two in front of John and not bothering to hold the door, instead just heaving it open and trusting John to run through before the momentum swung it shut. They caught up with Freddie and Brian still arguing over Freddie’s friends like an old married couple. And Roger walked on Freddie’s left, and John walked on Brian’s right, and when they four split up and went their separate ways to their respective train stations and vans, Roger didn’t look back to see if John’s eyes or thoughts were lingering on him the way Roger’s were on John.


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So can we all just pretend I posted this in a timely manner? Sorry to make everyone wait for the final chapter, I really didn't mean to but I had a lot of things come up in the last month. Sorry if that sort of made whoever was reading lose interest a bit, but it's here! The last chapter's here! Thanks to everyone who's read it up til now and thanks for so many lovely comments they were very much appreciated and motivating <33 I hope this chapter was worth the wait, please comment if you think so <3 and let me know if an epilogue is in order! <3

Days turned to weeks, turned to months. Two months. If Roger lied to himself he quite easily pretend, behaving like John was a fling, like he was a funny story to look back on fondly, like his heart wasn’t trying to piece itself back together. It was easiest when they were apart. So he kept his distance. On nights that they’d find normally find themselves in each other’s arms, or at very least in each other’s company, Roger began to cancel, to make up excuses, until John stopped asking altogether.

Part of him looked forward to rehearsals when he knew John would be there, would chat with him while they set up, would sit too close to him at the pub afterwards, would linger a bit the same way Roger did when they said their goodbyes in the quiet privacy of his van’s shadow or the awkward openness and formality of a goodbye with Freddie and Brian as their audience. Part of him wanted those days to be his majority. But once they were over, he’d go home, alone with Freddie, and feel his whole body ache for him. In pain and in need of something John didn’t want to give him. So it was better to keep away, better to limit the amount of times he had to feel so awful, so exhausted.

“You do have to eat, Rog,” said Freddie with a tense laugh lacing his words, “you can’t be this cliche when you’re already skin and bones.”

“I’m not protesting,” said Roger with a shrug as he moved the lentils around the plate, “I’m just not hungry.”

“But you are. Because you haven’t eaten. Just eat,” said Freddie. “Take bites for my sake if not your own.”

“Must be coming down with something,” Roger swallowed his bite without chewing, not interest in the flavour or the texture, just trying to get it over with.

“You know you’re not,” said Freddie. “I think you ought to talk to him.”

“Oh please,” Roger scoffed. “And say what? ‘I’m still in love with you, can you fix it’?”

“I think you need some sort of—some sort of finality to this,” said Freddie. “The way things ended was so abrupt and so—so tight lipped.”

“We talked,” said Roger. “We agreed we’re better off as friends, I’m not going to humiliate myself by saying another word about it.” Roger took a bigger bite, an act of defiance against Freddie that backfired as his stomach turned, not used to the amount and richness of the food.

“What’ll you do if he marries that Ronnie woman he’s always out with?” said Freddie. “What’ll you do then? Pretend he doesn’t exist outside of the band?”

“That’s practically what I do now,” said Roger with a shrug. He’d already thought himself down that road. Already imagined John coming in and telling them all he was engaged to that girl. It’d only been a short while since John began talking about her on and off. Freddie teased him once about his crush though John swore they were just good friends. It was premature to be concerned about a surprise engagement but his heartbroken, anxiety ridden mind made sure that scenario played over and over in his mind as often as possible. And in every permutation of that scenario, it always ended with Roger’s absence.

“You can’t quit the band,” said Freddie.

“Excuse me?” laughed Roger.

“I know you, I know you’re stewing away over there imagining packing your shit and moving stateside and getting a fake New York accent and pretending no part of this life here ever happened,” said Freddie, remarkably close to Roger’s fantasies. “But you’re not leaving England, you’re not even leaving London. I won’t let you throw out all the hard work you’ve done for _this._ ”

“Fuck off— _this_ is a big deal to me,” said Roger, more than he was normally willing to admit.

“It is now, but you’ll feel like a total tit if you abandoned this band because of a broken heart, we both know that,” said Freddie, certainty clear on his face. With good reason. Roger knew his fantasies of starting over somewhere, of making new friends and never giving them the power to hurt him, was best left as a fantasy. But that didn’t mean he wanted to face the reality. “You have to find a way to be civil, to put it behind you properly. Not ignore it and pretend everything’s fine and then have trouble being left alone in a room together.”

Roger shifted his lentils around some more, avoiding Freddie’s eyes for a moment or two before he gave in and met his piercing gaze. “Fine, I’ll sort it out.”

“Good,” Freddie sat back in his chair, “you’ll feel better when you do.”

“Can’t imagine that,” said Roger, taking another reluctant bite, for Freddie’s sake. “Why would I feel better?”

“You’ll be talking to him again,” offered Freddie.

“It won’t be the same,” said Roger, childish even to his own ears.

“Friendship isn’t anything to turn your nose up at, Rog,” said Freddie with a smirk. “I’m sure once your feelings fade you’ll be glad to still know him.”

Roger was sure of that too. That once the pain ebbed out of him he’d be eager for John’s company again. Even if it was different, even if it didn’t satisfy _every_ need he had, even if someone else was filling the role he’d been thrown out of, he knew one day he wouldn’t feel jealous or scorned, he’d be relieved to have John in his life at all. But that was a day in the distant future, a day he couldn’t see from where he was.

But he didn’t tell Freddie all that, didn’t feel the need to burden him with his heavy heart and tired eyes, so he thanked him for his little motivational speech and was quick to say his goodnights. Alone in his room, on the edge of sleep, remembering how John felt lying next to him, breathing deep and mumbling odd things as he drifted off, he wondered if John was across town remembering the same things.

~~~

John always thrust his hips against his guitar when he played, even while they practiced. Long ago Roger teased him for it, said he didn’t know he and John’s bass were getting the same treatment. John blushed and said it helped his rhythm to sway with it the way he did. But Roger only ever saw that slight snap of his hips. He was nothing if not a good drummer, a skilled drummer, and wouldn’t fall off beat from the look of him. But his mind wasn’t in the song they were practicing. It was watching John, watching the concentration on his face, watching the muscles tensing and relaxing in each hand, listening to the way he grunted when Roger crashed his cymbals.

And it annoyed him more than anything.

It was so much harder to pretend he was fine, to pretend he didn’t care what or who John did when he wasn’t such a strange combination of turned on and aching. When he wasn’t so desperate for him in every way, and furious with himself for being desperate for him. But still smiling, still grinning and laughing with him when their eyes met, like nothing was wrong.

“Fuck, I hope I haven’t thrown it out,” said Freddie, massaging his throat and speaking a little more hoarse after belting for so long.

“Hot shower, hot tea,” said Brian as he packed up his guitar.

“If it doesn’t work I’ll blame you.” Freddie groaned, grumbled through his sore voice, and turned to Roger. Roger looked back at him, with a half grin, wondering what he needed, wondering if he was offering to help strike his drumkit with him. Then he glanced quick over to John, in the far cornered locking up his guitar. A hint that he ought to talk how he promised he would. But not then. Not then. Roger shook his head. Freddie nodded his. “Brian would you step outside with me, I need to speak to you urgently and in private.”

“What—what about?” said Brian, worry already painted on his face.

“It’s very dire,” said Freddie, hopping off the stage they practiced on and hurrying out the door. Brian trailed behind him with his guitar case in hand, stepping quick, almost hopping to catch up to him. Roger watched him go with a clenched jaw.

“Smooth,” laughed John from the other end of the stage.

“How’s that?” said Roger. His fingers traced the key for his rack tom, not turning it and loosening the drum just yet.

“Just, a bit obvious, don’t you think?” said John with a quiet scoff.

“Obvious about what?”

“Don’t do that,” sighed John. Roger turned just enough to watch him stand and stretch, and his eyes followed him as John sauntered over to his kit, untwisting and dismantling it without a word. Roger hesitated for a moment, then did the same. Reaching between his drums to loosen the knobs holding them up, to pull them off the rack. “You know, you said we should stay friends and then—”

“I know,” said Roger, tight lipped. “I meant it, honestly.”

“Past tense?” said John with a nervous laugh.

Roger’s hand lingered on his hihat, and his eyes moved up from his drums to John’s anxious face. It’d be so easy to end it there. To tell John he was losing sleep, losing focus, losing interest in anything that didn’t involve getting miles away from John while he wished he could get close. But that shy, worried expression, hidden by a fake smile, it got to Roger, reminded him of the night they met and how delicate John could really be. “And present tense.”

John exhaled and grinned a little wider. “At least there’s that.”

“I know I’ve been a little…distant,” said Roger.

“A little?” John said with a bit more force.

“Right,” Roger laughed, “but I didn’t mean to be, just…sorting it all out in my own head.”

“Is it sorted?” said John.

“Just about,” said Roger with every muscle in his body tensing, begging him to just tell John the hell he was going through trying to move past it all.

“So,” John shifted from one foot to the other, “would you be willing to see me again? As a friend,” he added, holding both hands up.

“Er,” began Roger. John’s emphasis on the word ‘friend’ still stinging just a bit, John’s hopeful eyes making it hard to say no as he usually did, “sure, sure, why don’t we get a drink. I don’t have to get up early tomorrow.” It’d be easier like that, impromptu. No time for anything too intricate or lengthy, nothing he couldn’t ditch halfway through, nothing he couldn’t linger with if he wanted, if John wanted.

“Right now?” said John.

“You got somewhere to be?”

“Actually, yes,” he laughed. “I’m supposed to see Ronnie for drinks, I’m meeting a few of her friends. Still at a pub though.”

“Meeting her friends,” said Roger through a fake grin and clenched teeth, “must be getting serious.”

“We’re just friends,” said John quickly. “You can come—in fact, you should come. I won’t make much of an impression on the lot of them without someone a little louder with me.”

“I wouldn’t want to interrupt,” said Roger, focused again on his drums.

“You wouldn’t be,” said John. “And she’s dying to have more than a four second conversation with you after all I’ve told her.”

“What’s that mean?” said Roger, pausing for a moment. He’d met Ronnie once, maybe twice, never lingered in a conversation with her, never thought he could really stomach it. Freddie and Brian didn’t have the same aversion and didn’t turn down chances to go out with John just because Ronnie would be with him. But even then, Roger didn’t think his absence would be worth mentioning, didn’t think his past with John was something he chatted about. “What’ve you told her?”

“Oh—none of the—nothing about—nothing bad,” said John.

“Bad?” said Roger.

“Not that it’s—it’s not bad,” said John, running a nervous hand through his hair, “but I figured you wouldn’t want her knowing.”

“I wouldn’t or _you_ wouldn’t,” teased Roger, a little to much anger in his voice. It didn’t feel like a fair thing to call him for. Of course he wouldn’t tell his new girlfriend he’d spent the last few months fucking his bandmate. It’d be a mess that would be impossible to clean up. But that didn’t mean he had to be polite about it, didn’t mean he had to like Ronnie.

“You wouldn’t,” said John. “You’re so private—I figured—”

“It’s fine, I was only joking,” said Roger with a fake laugh that didn’t quite convince either of them. “I—I’ll have to miss it tonight. Next time for sure.”

“You swear?” said John.

“I swear,” said Roger. Though he didn’t mean it, and he was sure John knew he didn’t mean it.

They packed up his drums in silence, passing each other in the lot on their trips back and forth and not sharing another word until Freddie and Brian rejoined them from where they’d been loitering under the streetlamp on the curb. Roger didn’t bother with goodnights. He waved at Brian, mumbled something like ‘bye’ in John’s general direction and got in his van before Freddie could force any more amiability from him.

Roger watched Freddie in his side mirror, watched him chat, heard the lingering echos of his goodbyes and held his breath until he finally hopped up into the passenger’s seat and slammed the door shut. He’d never been quicker to peel out of the carpark, never been more eager to get home, to get away.

“What happened?” said Freddie, turning the volume off on the car stereo.

“Nothing,” said Roger.

“Don’t make me ask twice,” groaned Freddie. “You did chat didn’t you?”

“We did,” Roger sighed and sank back into his seat. “He invited me out to meet Ronnie’s friends with him.”

“And what? Did you say no?” said Freddie.

“Fucking—obviously I said no,” said Roger, gripping his steering wheel tighter. “What the fuck was I supposed to say, Fred?”

“Yes,” said Freddie with a wave of his hand. “Wasn’t the idea of this to get along, to rebuild your beat and battered friendship? How can you do that if you can’t be in the same room as whoever he’s seeing, be it Ronnie or someone new later on.”

“It’s too soon,” said Roger, his palms sweating and his heart aching.

“What if you put this off until it’s too late?” said Freddie.

“Too late for what?”

“To fix it,” said Freddie. “What if you wait to mend fences past the point where he still wants you around?”

“Then so be it,” said Roger, though the very thought of that, of John not caring either way about him, turned his stomach.

“You know you’ll regret it,” said Freddie. “Things can’t be how they were but they can still be good Roger, don’t waste that chance by moping and avoiding him.”

Roger said nothing, instead he turned the radio up and drowned out any more advice Freddie might’ve offered him. He didn’t want to hear it, didn’t want to think about how true it actually was. It didn’t feel fair that all the work was on him to fix this. That John could just reject him out of hand and be allowed to expect Roger’s return to his side. That Roger would have to stomach jealousy and discomfort, and intense sadness while John watched on, totally unfeeling. It wasn’t fair, but it was worth it to keep John around.

~~~

He knew, and Freddie repeated the sentiment, that John wouldn’t go through trying to initiate contact again. Roger had turned him down for weeks on end, and had added another rejection of John’s attempts at friendship three nights ago. No one, not even Roger, would have the confidence to try again after all that. So Roger had to do it for them. Had to dial John’s number and invite him out. Freddie suggested he do something quick and easy like meeting him for lunch between classes, but Roger knew he’d feel a little better about the whole thing with a drink in his hand. So he spun the rotary for John and hoped beyond hope he wasn’t home.

That hope was momentarily satisfied when John’s roommate picked up, and dashed again when his roommate handed the phone off to John without so much as a hello how are you, Roger’s voice too distinctive on the phone to be mistaken for any of their other friends.

“Who’s this?” said John.

“It’s me,” said Roger, wondering when his voice got so high.

“Rog,” said John, stammering on a few words before adding, “what’s going on?”

“Nothing serious,” said Roger with a laugh and a nervous twist of the phone cord around his finger, “I was only wondering if you—if you’re not busy—if you’d like to get drinks? Just down the pub, just to catch up seeing as we haven’t been very chatty lately.”

“Right now?” said John.

“If you can,” said Roger, half hoping he’d been too busy, half hoping he’d say yes.

“I—sure I can,” said John, frantically, as if he were planning on leaving while he was on the phone. “What pub—should I meet you or can you pick me up or—”

“I’ll er,” interrupted Roger, uneasy at the thought of sharing his van with John again. Something about that would always feel too intimate in his mind, “I’ll drive over your way, that pub a few blocks from yours’ll be fine.”

“Okay,” Roger could practically hear John’s smile over the phone, “okay I’ll meet you there in ten minutes.”

“Better make it twenty,” said Roger.

“Twenty it is,” said John.

“I’ll see you then,” said Roger, his grip on the phone a bit tighter as he hung it up.

Freddie reminded him over and over to think big picture. To endure conversation about Ronnie for the long run and the long haul between them. Roger promised both himself and Freddie that he would, that he’d focus not on the discomfort and tense conversation of the night but of the effort that making it through those things would mean in the future. A future he still couldn’t quite imagine but one he knew was better than being without John entirely.

He drove with the radio off, too concentrated on his own thoughts to hear any music, and when he parked he took a few tense breaths in, shook his hands out, and hopped out of his van before he could change his mind. Yanked open the pub door and hurried in, stepping quickly to make sure he dug his grave, to make sure he wouldn’t just turn around and leave unseen. John called his name from a booth in the corner, smiled and waved him over.

There was a pint waiting for Roger, a pint about half drunk in John’s hand.

“I’ll get the next one,” said Roger as a slight apology. He sucked in an enormous gulp of the lager.

“Don’t worry about it,” John shrugged his apology off. “So what changed your mind?”

“Changed my mind?” Roger took another big sip until he’d had about as much as John.

“About seeing me,” said John.

“I—nothing changed, I just had the time,” said Roger. John accepted that lukewarm response with a quiet nod.

“Well, I’m glad, I’ve missed you,” said John, hiding his face in his pint.

“You have?” Roger cocked his head.

John scoffed. “Of course I have. We spent practically every night together for months. How’m I not supposed to miss you.”

Missing him and missing the sex were separate entities. And though Roger wanted to clarify which he meant, he felt he already knew, and much preferred if it stayed a bit ambiguous and left him room to hope for the best.

“How was meeting Ronnie’s friends?” Roger blurted out as silence threatened to creep between them. Given the choice, he wouldn’t have brought her name up all night. But they had nothing left to talk about. Where before they could go on for hours about nothing at all, Roger found himself struggling to find any topic they could say a few words on that wasn’t each other, that wasn’t Ronnie. So he settled for Ronnie.

“Oh—horrible,” said John, “I was a total mute.”

“It couldn’t’ve been that bad,” said Roger with a grin.

“It was,” said John. He went on, describing how he’d barely eeked his own name out when he was introduced around the table, how he’d totally fell away in the conversation as her friends went on about things he was left out of. How he’d got called Johnny multiple times, and how he’d zoned out so entirely he didn’t stand to leave when everyone else did and was the butt of some joke between them now.

Roger couldn’t help laughing. Despite being so distant for so long, Roger could still imagine every move John made at that table with acute accuracy. His silence, his awkward contributions, the way he zoned out so easily were all impeccably visible in his mind and had him cringing and laughing the way John was.

“Suffice it to say, I don’t think they’ll want to see too much more of me in the future,” said John.

“I don’t know,” said Roger, polishing off his pint, “I think it’s endearing.”

“Don’t try and make me feel better,” laughed John.

“Remember when we first me? You were just as awkward but we still,” Roger coughed, “we still had fun.”

“We did,” said John turning his eyes down and focusing on the scratch in the table.

“Sorry—shouldn’t’ve mentioned that,” said Roger, hurrying to stand, “I’ll get us another.”

Roger refocused himself at the bar, reminded himself why he was there and how the night had to end. On a light, happy, friendly note with no lingering unspoken words about their past. That’s just what it was, the past, and it had to stay there if Roger wanted any shade of John back at his side.

He started in about the next show they had as soon as he sat down. Common ground that was easy to talk about. Easy to complain about Brian, about Freddie, about the rhythm parts they kept trying to write for John’s bass and the fills Brian wanted for Roger’s drums. Easy, light conversation. It moved around their music, moved through it, got them chatting about their favourite albums, their favourite new albums. Roger reminded him Bowie was coming through town in a matter of months and John promised he’d go with knowing Freddie would rather stay in that listen to his wailing. And with that promise came a great relief. A promise that months down the line they’d still know each other, they’d still be friends enough to fight a concert crowd together.

It made it easier to fall into their normal conversations that were longwinded chats about nothing in particular after that, after Roger knew he wasn’t the only one fighting to keep the two of them close. They talked through their second pints then kept on to let the buzz wear off before the night ended.

They decided to pack up and leave when the rumblings of a fight started on the other end of the pub. Roger hurried them out the side exit and laughed with John once they got out into the cold night air. Got out onto the pavement turning around the block to get to Roger’s van.

“That you up there?” said John, gesturing up the street to Roger’s van.

“Should be,” said Roger with a grin. “Need me to escort you all the way back or are you alright splitting here?” he teased.

“I think I’ll live,” laughed John.

Roger searched his pockets for his keys as they came up on his van. “I’m glad you were free.”

“Me too,” John walked a bit closer to him, avoiding the bins out on the curb, “I feel like it’s been ages since it’s been just us two.”

“It has,” said Roger with a sad smile. And though he’d so dreaded the start of the evening, right then, unlocking his door as slow as he could, he wished it wouldn’t end. Wished he could spend another hour or three just sitting with John, not doing anything in particular, just making up for lost time. “I guess I’ll see you at the show tomorrow night?”

“Sure,” said John, one hand awkwardly resting on the driver’s side door Roger’d swung open. He looked at Roger with that same intensity he used to, all those months before. Intense lack of confidence mixed with intense need that just didn’t make sense to Roger anymore. Not after their time apart, not after his closeness with Ronnie. But there was no mistaking the way he took a step into Roger, set his foot between Roger’s boots and blushed when he did.

And there was no mistaking the way Roger turned to face him more fully, the way his weight shifted forward just a bit. The way his hand awkwardly reached out for John’s hip, like he’d never done it before. Roger knew why he was hesitating, knew about all the fears swirling in his mind, but why was John so hesitant. It’d been such a clear cut for him before, a clear no, but here he was inching forward and back, bit by bit.

Roger couldn’t tell who closed the gap in the end. Which one initiated the final push, but he knew he was the one to pull away. John’s lips pressed to his, so effortless, so comfortable, he reveled in it for a moment, remembering how good he tasted, how good he felt pressed against him. And how bad that was. Roger pulled back, pressed himself into his van, and huffed.

“Don’t ruin this,” Roger mumbled. He didn’t know what he meant by ‘this’. The night, their friendship, his and Ronnie’s relationship, their chance at closeness, their chance at keeping the band from crumbling under the infighting. But either way, John backed up, wiped his mouth roughly and shook his head.

“Sorry,” said John, just as quiet, and again a little louder, “I’m sorry,” before he took two steps back and started his brisk walk home, never once looking back the way Roger did, watching his every step until he rounded a corner.

When Freddie asked Roger how it went, he omitted the ending, focused on the good, on the easy conversation and comfortable company they kept with each other. The end was too muddled and confusing to put into words, much less to talk about. Freddie got in a few ‘I told you so’s before Roger got in a scalding hot shower and let all his muscles relax and reset, hoping his mind would do the same.

~~~

“Is it okay?” said Roger, his eyes closed while Freddie brushed and patted on different shadows.

“It’s lovely,” said Freddie. “You’ve really got the eyes for this, there’s so much space.”

“Maybe I should wear this to work too,” said Roger with a laugh. Freddie warned him to stay still through a giggle. He didn’t usually go in for makeup, he always felt he looked more like an ugly woman than a pretty man when he put it on, his face straddled the line of androgyny too precariously for Roger to push it over the edge with makeup. But tonight he would’ve worn a dress if it meant he didn’t have to catch John’s eye across the room.

Ever since Roger picked him up from his flat, he’d been eyeing him. Like he had something to say, like it might be a long and difficult conversation, like it might be their last. And if he was honest with himself he’d like to avoid that as long as possible. It might not’ve been the smarted, most mature thing to do but if John was going to tell him Roger’s lingering feelings were too much to tolerate, well he’d rather leave that for later.

“All done,” said Freddie.

Roger huffed and opened his eyes, inspected it all in the mirror, acutely aware of John’s staring from the corner of his eyes. “Dear me, Freddie, this looks garish.”

“It’s not garish, it’s _glamourous_ ,” said Freddie. “Don’t fuck with it.”

“It’s so dark,” said Roger.

“More mysterious that way,” shrugged Freddie, one eye closed while he gave himself a similar look, though he began with a kohl pencil, something Roger could never really stomach.

“We’re on in five,” said Brian, “hurry it up.”

“I’m nearly there,” groaned Freddie, packing on some shimmering grey colour to his eyelid. Roger felt a bit silly complaining that he’d’ve preferred the grey so he kept that thought to himself.

They got their final three minute warning. Roger slipped on his shoes while Freddie and Brian fluffed up their hair as much as they could in the mirror. Their curls always seemed to deflate when they got sweaty under the lights. Roger’s did too but with no curl in the first place it wasn’t all that much of a difference. Never the less, he needled his way in between the two of them to spray his roots with the hairspray the same way Freddie and Brian had done, anything to keep busy and to keep away from John.

“Come on then, come on,” said Brian, holding the dressing room door open and tapping his foot arrhythmically.

“We’re coming we’re coming,” said Freddie, slipping a ballet slipper on as he took a step out the door. Roger was close behind, eager to get in front, eager to put someone between him and John who he could feel right on his tail. “Roger stop crowding me,” said Freddie, a little frustrated with Roger shifting in and out of his space.

“Sorry, sorry,” mumbled Roger behind him, steadying himself on the balls of his feet. Then Freddie took a step forward, Roger followed suit, almost on stage, almost safe from anything John looked so desperate to tell him. And he damn near made it when someone tugged his wrist back.

“Roger—” began John as Brian passed them both by with a face of confusion and urgency.

“Now’s not the time,” snapped Roger.

“I need to talk to you,” said John.

“Later.” Roger shook his hand off and hurried up on stage. Not yet the confrontation he’d been dreading all night, but enough of a taster that it threw him off. He waved to the crowd weakly, and wondered momentarily if he’d always held his drumsticks the way he was right then. If the drums always were set so high up, the bass so tight under his foot, the hihat pedal so crooked. Certainly it was all the same, but with the looming anxiety of John’s looks in his direction, he couldn’t be sure of anything.

He played with his eyes and his mind on the drums, trying to keep both from drifting over to John, trying to put more life in his performance and failing, save the few times Freddie wandered up to his kit and made faces at him over the cymbals. He never slipped, never missed a beat, a note, a crash, but he was off and he knew it, and John knew it. And when Freddie said their goodnights, Roger knew any hope of getting home without John backing him into a conversation was foolish.

He danced around him while they changed out of their sweaty clothes and talked loud and obtrusively while Freddie wiped as much of the eyeshadow off the four of them as he could, and for once they had a roadie ready to pack Roger’s drums away. He’d so nearly avoided every possible opportunity for John to pull him aside. Almost. Until he lagged behind Freddie and Brian in the corridor out to his van and John hurried to catch up with him.

“Rog—”

“We don’t need to talk,” said Roger, walking a bit faster.

“Maybe you don’t, but I do,” said John, reaching for his shoulder and pulling him back, forcing him to stop, to look at him, to respond. “Last time we didn’t talk this through we stopped talking altogether. Can we please get it all out—please, Rog, I know it’ll be uncomfortable for you but—please—please, just make an excuse to come by mine after you drop me off, and come to mine.”

Roger stared at the desperation on his face, the pain. It made him wonder why he wanted to have his conversation at all. If it would hurt so much to finally pull the plug, to admit being friends was an impossible goal, why the urgency to tell Roger that, why the pained desperation to set that boundary in stone, right then, that night, as soon as possible.

But if he wanted it done, if he wanted distance, Roger wouldn’t put it off, wouldn’t insert himself where he wasn’t wanted. “Fine, I’ll come by.” He twisted out of John’s grip and hurried to catch up to Freddie and Brian out in the carpark.

~~~

“What do you need to talk about?” said Freddie on their drive back.

Roger shrugged, speeding by some blocks and slowing down for others, unsure if he wanted to delay going back to John’s or get it over with. “I think he’s gonna tell me it’s too difficult to be just friends. Y’know some bullshit about needing to focus on Ronnie and I’m too _much_.”

“I think he just wants to talk, Rog,” said Freddie. “You never actually worked through any of this you just started pretending it wasn’t there, then started pretending John wasn’t there. I don’t blame him for wanting to sort of…expand on what happened.”

“I don’t think that’s it,” said Roger.

“Well,” sighed Freddie as Roger pulled the car to a stop in front of their building, “only one way to find out.” He hopped out of the passenger’s seat and slammed the door shut behind him. “Good luck, soldier,” he said with grin before waving goodbye and hurrying up the steps to their flat.

On the drive back he wondered if he might just not go. Might skip it and go to a pub for a late drink, meet a stranger to forget it all with. Maybe he could drive down to Truro, see his mum, let any calls for him go unreturned for a week or so. And with all those options floating around his head, he still ended up at John’s flat, still ended up parking out front and walking up the steps to his front door. Still ended up knocking. Still ended up smiling when John opened the door.

“You came,” said John.

“You asked me to,” said Roger.

“Yes, but…” John’s words trailed off as he stepped aside, held the door open for Roger and closed it behind him. “I can make tea—or something to eat if you like—”

“I don’t want to…” began Roger, “I don’t want to draw this out, let’s just…get on with it.”

John sighed and nodded and nervously cracked his knuckles. “Well...d’you want to sit?”

“Sure,” sighed Roger, his hands shaking and his chest so unbelievably heavy he thought he might be left gasping for air the longer this all went on. He sat on John’s couch, sank into the old cushions and stared straight ahead while John did the same. While Roger was relaxed and accepting of his fate, leaning heavy on the cushions, John sat up, wrung his hands and bounced his leg. Roger already knew the horrible news headed his way, he couldn’t imagine why John was so afraid to give it to him. “Are your roommates home?” said Roger amid the silence.

“Er—no, they had a mutual friend to visit,” said John, his voice a little hoarse. “They’ll be back tomorrow morning.”

“Ah,” said Roger through a sigh as the silence crept back in. John’s leg kept bouncing, his hands kept moving over each other with a tight grip, and he continued saying nothing. Quiet and anxious and unwilling to put Roger out of his misery it seemed. So Roger cleared his throat. “Look, I know what you’re gonna say.”

“I know you do, it’s just hard,” said John, turning to look at him however briefly.

“I know,” said Roger tiredly. How had it come to pass that he was comforting John. “But you already broke my heart once, you can do it again.”

“What?” said John, turning towards Roger fully this time, committing to it. “I broke your heart?”

“Oh don’t act surprised,” said Roger, his voice starting to shake. “I mean, I love you, of course that whole mess of a fight would break my heart, of course Ronnie would break my heart. It’s not a secret.”

“Since when do you love me?” said John with a cocked head.

“Since—Since I told you,” said Roger, cocking his head to match. “I told you that night you brought Ronnie to our party, I told you I loved you and you said you only needed me for sex and…and you left.”

John eyed him with a furrowed brow and a slack jaw for a moment. He clenched his jaw then, shut his eyes tight for a moment, and looked back at Roger with the same level of confusion. “Is that what you think happened?”

“I know I was drunk but I remember what’s important—” began Roger.

“Obviously not,” interrupted John with a voice a little louder than it ought to have been. Roger recoiled, a bit more defensive at the aggression dripping off John. “You were drunk. I asked if I could stay the night with you even though you never let me stay over, and you said I couldn’t stay for free. When I tried to—to—well you were too drunk, and then you told me our arrangement was for teaching purposes only, that I’d learned all I could from you and that I had to leave.”

“What?” breathed Roger. “No, that’s not…not how I remember it…” the volume of his voice got lower and lower as he went on. As he tried and failed to remember what happened that night past his own version of the events. And the more he thought the more he was sure he’d never remembered saying what he thought he did. That he loved John. “I remember being clear, and being upset.”

“You were upset,” said John, “but if your goal wasn’t to humiliate me, to make me feel like shit then you weren’t fucking clear.”

“Humiliated?” said Roger, leaning forward.

“Yes, fucking humiliated,” said John. “I went in asking for a bit of…a little glimpse into the world of actually being with you, of being a proper couple, and you told me I had to pay for it, then said I ought to never try it again. That was the worst fucking night of my life.”

“I, well, I…I’m sorry,” stammered Roger. It felt odd to apologise for John’s memory of the night seeing as his own version was so different but so much blurrier. “That wasn’t what I meant, I’m sure.”

“How are you sure?”

“How do you think?” said Roger with a tense laugh. “I’m in love with you—if I ever said anything like that I—I obviously didn’t mean it.”

“There was nothing obvious about it,” snapped John.

“Well—I said I was sorry,” spat Roger, crossing his arms over his chest.

“Well good,” said John, doing the same.

“Good,” said Roger, shifting in his seat. “So…do you forgive me or not?”

“I guess,” said John with a little less bite in his tone, a little more slack in the way his arms and legs crossed over each other. “So, you’re still in love with me?”

“Don’t poke fun,” said Roger with a serious tone.

“I’m not,” said John.

“It’ll pass,” said Roger.

“You want it to pass?” said John.

“Who _wants_ love to pass?” scoffed Roger. “But it won’t be a problem for you and Ronnie, for the band either.”

“How many fucking times do I have to tell you we are just friends?” spat John.

“Oh are you,” said Roger, ready to argue. “Because I do find it interesting that all the time we used to spend together is now with her. You really expect me to believe you aren’t spending it the same way?”

John clenched his jaw, went back to cracking his knuckles, and exhaled tiredly. “We went on three dates.”

“It’s more than three, you’re meeting her friends, her family’s next—”

“ _After_ that night, we went out a few times while you were still refusing to return my calls. She kissed me once while I was piss drunk. I cried, and threw up, and told her everything about you and about me,” said John. “We’re friends.”

“You,” Roger cleared his throat, “you said you hadn’t told her.”

“Is that all you can say?” said John with a sigh. “That you caught me in a lie?”

“I—I don’t get this John. If you cared so much about me, why didn’t you say something when we were still together?” said Roger.

“When were we together?” spat John with a humourless laugh. “Whatever we were doing was a secret. No one was allowed to know, you wouldn’t let me stay over, you wouldn’t stay over with me, and over and over and over again you reminded me that this was just a bit of fun, it was _practice_. Why the fuck would I tell you how I felt, you’d just run off. _And you did_.”

“Oh fuck off, that’s not what fucking happened,” said Roger, sitting up a bit, getting in his face a bit. “Anytime I wanted to be alone with you, I wanted to go out with you, you invited Freddie and Brian. Those are pretty clear signals. I even let you fuck me and you were—you were unfazed you didn’t fucking care. What the fuck was I supposed to think when you saved Ronnie’s number and brought her round to mine and Freddie’s as your plus one?”

“Are you kidding?!” said John with a choked scoff. “You think doing _that_ was being clear?”

“As if you were _so_ upfront with your feelings!” snapped Roger.

“I was afraid to be since you were so guarded with yours!” said John. His voice echoing of his walls when silence followed. And in that silence they let each other’s words sink in. Let the meaning of them shine through the way they’d been shouted.

“So,” Roger stared pensively somewhere in the middle distance, “so you’re not with Ronnie?”

“Never was,” said John, his voice considerably quieter. “That’s why I asked you to come by.”

“What’d’you mean?” said Roger, shifting closer to him.

“I mean, I love you,” said John, shyly meeting his eyes. “I thought you knew, I thought you were avoiding me because of it and I, well I wanted you to come by so I could try and convince you you didn’t have to. Keep your distance, that is.”

“Well,” Roger kept his eyes on John’s, “I don’t want to keep my distance.”

“I don’t want you too either,” said John, quieter this time, inching closer to Roger as Roger did the same.

Roger held his gaze, looking for any sign of apprehension as his hand eased across his thigh, but John welcomed it, reached for Roger’s shirt, put a shaking hand between two of his buttons and lingered in the warmth there. His hand didn’t stop shaking until Roger closed the gap between him. Kissed him hard enough to make up for the lost months between them, kissed him hard enough to apologise for all he’d done, to promise John none of it mattered anymore.

John held a fistful of his shirt, kept him close, Roger couldn’t imagine moving an inch further from him. He brushed his tongue across Roger’s lip, across Roger’s tongue, hummed into his mouth.

“You’re still the only one who’s ever touched me,” said John, breaking away just enough to speak.

Roger took a shallow breath in, pulled back enough to look into John’s brown eyes, full of apprehension and desire. “God,” he hummed as he ran a hand through John’s hair, “I love you.” He ran his thumb across John’s red cheek and added, “you ruined me for anyone else, couldn’t bear the thought of going near anyone but you.”

“You mean that?” said John, leaning into his touch just a bit.

Roger nodded, leant back into him, brushed a chaste kiss across his lips and sighed, “of course I do,” before kissing him harder, with more force, more intention.

“I’m sorry,” said John, his words muffled by Roger for a moment. “I should’ve—I should’ve done the whole lot differently, I don’t know why I started with Ronnie I was just so, so afraid you didn’t want me and I—”

“It’s alright,” said Roger with a quiet laugh. “We both could’ve done a lot differently,” he ran his hand across John’s belt, sliding under the fabric, tugging his shirt up and out of his waistband, tracing his fingers over the warm skin of his belly, “but we’re here now.”

“Finally,” sighed John, a trembling hand reaching out for Roger, hooking on his belt and tugging it open. Roger grinned, kissed him with all he had and worked John’s belt open too. But John worked faster, worked with more purpose, and had his hand around Roger’s cock in an instant, stroking him in that clumsy way he usually did, the way Roger had grown so fond of. And he would’ve been fine there, putty in John’s hand with his tongue down his throat, but John pulled back.

Just enough for Roger to open his eyes, for Roger to wonder what was wrong. But it all became clear with the way John awkwardly sank to the floor and shuffled between Roger’s knees.

“You sure?” said Roger. He put a hand in John’s hair and watched with wide eyes at the way John leant forward, pressed his lips to the head of his cock, more of a kiss than anything, barely enough suction to actually feel.

He slipped his tongue out, ran it the length of Roger, had Roger gritting his teeth and holding his breath as Johns mouth lightly trailed up and down his cock, up one side down the other, tentative and slow until he pulled away to mumble, “you haven’t taught me this one.”

“Just how I do it to you,” said Roger, his voice practically shaking, desperate for more from him. That shaky breathing turned to a hiss then a moan when John wrapped his lips around his head, sucked and circled his tongue and worked to take him deeper with each bob of his head.

Roger whispered some unheard praise and gripped his hair tighter when John remembered to twist the hand on Roger’s cock, supplementing for the depth John couldn’t reach with his mouth. He could’ve come like that, could’ve drained himself down John’s throat and repaid the favour tenfold later on but that wasn’t how he wanted it, not in the living room, no with John uncomfortably shifting from knee to knee as the planks of the floorboards dug into his skin.

“Stop, stop,” breathed Roger. “Don’t want it to end here.”

“Where then?” said John, wiping his mouth on the back of his hand.

“C’mon,” Roger righted his clothes and stood, held a hand to heave John up and led him back to his room.

It’d been so long since Roger’d seen his room, been so long since that warm glow from his desk lamp had washed the room out in yellows and oranges and made him feel totally at home. He kicked the door shut and chased John to his bed. Just as he remembered it, just as creaky and just as uncomfortable as it’d always been. The springs screamed as they fumbled around, tearing through each other’s clothes and throwing them far, far away.

Out of habit, Roger blindly reached into John’s side table for the lube that’d always been there, and there was a shock of comfort or relief maybe when he found it there, just where he’d left it.

“Fuck,” said Roger as he coated his fingers, “it’s almost gone.”

“I missed you,” said John, with bright red cheeks.

“Can’t say I was any better,” said Roger with a smirk. He eased himself between John’s legs, running a hand across his inner thigh as they spread.

“Wait, Rog,” said John.

“Cold feet already?” teased Roger.

“I want you,” said John, looking deep into Roger’s eyes and never faltering.

“Okay,” whispered Roger in response, “okay,” he repeated before kissing him rough and a little sloppy, and using his lubed up fingers on himself. John whined when Roger did, bucked up against him when Roger’s breath caught, and groaned the longer it went, the longer Roger made him wait. And he didn’t stop whining until Roger sank down onto him, one hand hard pressed on John’s chest, the other tangled in the sheets. John’s breath caught just as much as Roger’s, his breath wavered just as much and when Roger rolled his hips, moved just enough, John sobbed out a moan, dug his nails into Roger’s thigh.

Roger couldn’t help smile, laugh a little too, at the way John helplessly bucked his hips up into him, and the way he stroked Roger with an uneven grip and rhythm. But soon his smile faded as the work and the pleasure overtook him. Each roll of his hips was more effort and more intense than the last. With his head thrown back, his eyes shut tight, he moved as fast as his shaking legs would allow, but it wasn’t fast enough for what he wanted, what he felt building in him. He needed more and still felt odd asking for it.

But, without words, John heard him. Shifted under him and flipped them both, rolled on top of him and kissed his collarbone as he sank back into Roger. He could get deeper with Roger spread open for him like that, and it had them both whining, reaching out for each other, kissing whatever they could as the feeling overtook them. John’s hips snapped into him sharply, and with each movement, Roger inched his hand up John’s arm, across his shoulder, eventually tracing over his neck until John mumbled a quiet ‘please’ and let Roger squeeze just a bit.

That renewed, more intense connection Roger felt the first time John asked him to keep his hand on his neck, rushed back tenfold. Amplified by how vulnerable Roger felt with on knee pinned back to the mattress for John. That aching in his chest, that pit in his stomach, that desperation for John that’d plagued him for months weighed on him still, just as heavy just as all encompassing. But no longer a sadness, no longer a curse. That vulnerability he felt with John, John felt it right back, he could feel it in the way he pressed on his neck, the way John whined when he did. That need for John, John felt it right back and showed it with his erratic thrusts and quiet moans of Roger’s name. All those heavy, unrelenting emotions that Roger could never put away found their home in him while John moved and silently reassured him they weren’t a burden or an embarrassment.

Roger could hardly think by the time he came in John’s grip. He bucked up and cried out when John’s hips bucked with him and stilled, deep inside him. John sounded so perfect, so fucking loud when he came. So uncontrolled and overwhelmed, his face was always painted with intense pleasure and helplessness.

He brushed the strands of sweat-soaked hair from John’s forehead and shifted enough for him to lie down at Roger’s side. They caught their breath with each other, grinned and laughed with each other, both going over their needlessly hurt feelings over the last few months. And when the chill from the draft in John’s room cooled them off too much, Roger nestled them both under the sheets, laid on his side with a hand trailing over John’s nose, across his forehead, back down the bridge of his nose, across his cheeks, across his lips, a light touch that had John’s eyes fluttering closed and his hand on Roger’s hip squeezing when he caught himself dozing.

“You’re not tired are you?” teased Roger.

“Wide awake,” said John with his eyes shut. “You’re staying right?”

“You’d have to drag me out otherwise,” said Roger. “I do love you.”

“Mm,” hummed John. “I love you.”

Roger nestled in closer, let his eyes shut, let his breathing sync up with John’s until he drifted off with him.

~~~

“Stop staring and slow down,” said John, just loud enough for Roger, his words floating over Roger’s cymbals as he grinned up at John. The practice room echoed with their playing and had done so for nearly two hours. After those two hours Roger found he was the only one willing to stay at tempo, though everyone else called it speeding up. He ended the song with a flourish on his cymbals and a beating of his bass drum as if it were a live show. John and Freddie rolled their eyes, Freddie even covered his ears, but Brian played the end out with him, loud as ever.

“God, you’re insufferable,” said Freddie, not specifying if he meant Roger or Brian.

“We sounded good,” said Brian, hoisting his guitar off his shoulders.

“I think we sounded better than our last show,” said John, doing the same.

“Well we were definitely louder,” grumbled Freddie.

“You say that like it’s a bad thing.” Roger stood and stretched, his legs both a little numb and sore after sitting so long. He watched the sliver of exposed skin over John’s lower back as he bent over, clasping shut his guitar case, and sighed deep, admiring the bite mark he’d left nights before that had only just begun to fade.

“I don’t mind you speeding it all up for the shows, just a bit, but I don’t want you to use this as an argument for why we ought to speed it up if we ever record,” said Brian.

“Oh we are definitely recording,” said Freddie.

“I’m definitely using it as an argument for that. No one’ll want the slower version after we’ve wowed them with the real deal,” said Roger as he climbed out from behind his kit.

“Can we please save the bickering for when we’re actually in the studio,” said Freddie as he tugged his jacket on. He tossed Roger his and pulled his arm through the other sleeve. Roger did the same, starting upside down at first. “Who’s for drinks?”

“You got money this time?” said Brian, his grip tight on his guitar case. “I don’t want to get roped into paying for three rounds and having you two promise you’ll get me back.”

“We’ll actually get you back this time,” said Freddie. “We had a good week at the stall.”

“Then yes, I’m in.”

“I’m not,” said John.

“Too good for us?” teased Freddie.

“Just the opposite,” said John, standing and adjusting the way his jacket laid against him under the strap of his bag, one hand holding his guitar at his side. “My roommates are having a few friends over, they invited me.”

“Oh, you’re not too good for us, you just don’t prefer us over your roommates,” said Freddie, faking the hurt in his voice.

“I can’t blow them off, they’re actually speaking to me now, I have to capitalise on this,” said John with a laugh.

“Tell them we say hello,” said Brian.

“You’re fired,” said Freddie.

“Will do,” John said to Brian, “and no I’m not,” he said to Freddie.

“I have the final say in this band,” said Freddie.

“Have fun,” said Brian overtop. “Wait—Fred, since when do you have the final say?”

“Since I’m the prettiest,” said Freddie, standing as tall as he could.

“You’re not even a founding member,” said Brian.

Roger rolled his eyes at the impending argument and took a step towards John, let his voice sink below the frustrating noise of Freddie and Brian’s bickering. “Sure you don’t want me there?”

“I’m sure you don’t want you there,” said John. “The only two topics of conversation they’re capable of having around you are how loud we are and the concept of adding a keyboardist to the band.”

“God, they are real pieces of work,” said Roger. “You really ought to move out.”

“Move out where?” said John with a subtle eyeroll.

“Always room with me,” said Roger.

“Oh?” John cocked his head.

“Oh,” Roger repeated, a grin breaking across his face as a blush broke across John’s. “But that can wait ’til after you’ve pretended to enjoy your roommates’ company.”

“Well now maybe I’m exempt from having to go?” said John, only half joking.

“ _Go on_ ,” said Roger with a playful shove. John sighed and rocked forward, kissed Roger a quick goodbye and mumbled ‘bye’ to Freddie and Brian as he passed them on his way out.

Freddie’s arguing was still going strong as the door swung shut, but Brian had gone silent, both arms out looking between Roger and the door over and over.

“The fuck was that?” said Brian.

“What was what?” said Freddie.

“See this is how self-centered you are,” said Roger with a suck of his teeth and a shake of his head. “Every big band’s rhythm section does that, but of course Mr. Guitarist doesn’t fucking notice.”

“They do not,” said Brian with a scoff. Then added a bit quieter, “do they?”

“Ignorance at it’s fucking finest,” sighed Roger dramatically.

“Oh, don’t fuck with him, he might believe you,” laughed Freddie.

“Paul doesn’t get off stage without kissing Ringo with tongue. That’s common knowledge,” said Roger with an exasperated huff.

“I can’t…I can’t tell if you’re joking,” said Brian.

“ _He is_ ,” said Freddie before Roger had the chance to add on to the lie. He couldn’t help but grin when Brian glared at him.

“So what the fuck—what the hell was that?”

“Johnny and me, we’re an _item_ ,” said Roger in the best cheesy american accent he could muster.

“I…still can’t tell if you’re joking,” said Brian.

“I’m not,” laughed Roger, “it’s been months now.”

“This is a weird joke—”

“It’s not a joke,” said Roger, a bit louder with a bit of a croakier laugh behind it.

“It’s not,” added Freddie, though he wasn’t much more convincing than Roger. The look of confusion and bewilderment on Brian’s face had them both giggling.

“Since when are you into…since when’s that been…?” said Brian, letting his silence fill in the blanks.

“Dunno,” Roger shrugged. “The whole time you’ve known me though, that’s for certain.”

“No,” said Brian in disbelief. “I would’ve noticed.”

“And yet,” laughed Roger.

“So you aren’t joking?” said Brian, his words twisting up at the end.

“No,” said Roger, a laugh undercutting his own point.

“He’s serious,” said Freddie, “they’ve been at this since before John ever joined the fucking band.”

“What?” said Brian with a sharp intake of air. “What—won’t that—is that gonna effect the band are we—”

“You missed it,” said Freddie with a wave of his hand. “All that already happened and they made up. We’re in the clear.”

“What?” said Brian. “What the fuck goes on when I’m not here?”

“This is what you get for settling down so young,” said Freddie with an arm across Brian’s shoulders. “You miss out on all the tedious melodrama of Roger trying to communicate a single emotion to another human being.”

“Tedious?” said Roger with fake indignation.

“Tedious,” repeated Freddie with a smirk. “I’ve gotta piss before we go, don’t leave me here or I’ll throw a fit like you’ve never seen before.”

Roger glared at his back as he strode out but found himself smiling again when his gaze caught Brian’s. “You alright?”

“Mhm,” he nodded. “So…you two’re…” Roger held his breath waiting for how the thought would end, “happy?”

“Oh,” said Roger, a bit surprised after having expected something a little more invasive, a little more intimate than that. “Yeah, we are. Really happy actually.”

“You seem a little perkier,” said Brian. “I assumed you’d just stopped smoking all that hash or something.”

“Six of one,” said Roger with a grin, Brian grinned back, a little more awkward than normal but open as ever. Willing to listen to Roger dote. And Roger wouldn’t pass up a chance for that. He walked with Brian out, ditching Freddie on purpose just to get a rise out of him when he finally caught up, laughing as they hurried down the road to his van. He recounted bits and pieces of his and John’s story as they went. Brian didn’t interrupt, only nodded along and shot him a few pensive glances as Roger continued.

There was a freedom to that. One he’d never really felt deprived of in the past. He’d never dared see anyone he met at the pubs more than once, never dared let them into his life, never had that inability to share them openly. John made it easy to bridge that gap, to ease the two sides of his persona together. The two versions he saw as so separate and exclusive. His rocker image had felt so incompatible with the reality of himself, but John kept him whole. And in that moment, recounting a few key details of how they’d found each other to Brian, he wanted nothing more than to ring him up, to thank him for breaking him of that secretive cycle he’d been stuck in for so long, for staying with him, for loving him. But that could all wait until later. Until Roger had him alone, could whisper it to him and ask him, a bit more seriously this time, to stop that awful commute back to his flat and cram his clothes and belongings into the limited space of Roger’s bedroom.


End file.
